12-Scam

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12-Scam Page 3

by Parnell Hall


  Pritchert held up one finger. Looked very much like a high school teacher about to lecture a naughty pupil. “I don’t like you going in with that attitude. If you expect to fail, you will fail. If there’s nothing to get, fine. But I want you to make an honest effort. Give it a fair shot.”

  I sighed. “All right,” I said, “I will have a positive attitude and give it a fair shot.”

  I don’t think I sounded very convincing.

  6.

  BETTY BRODY BROKE HER LEG.

  Doo dah. Doo dah.

  Betty Brody broke her leg.

  All the doo dah day.

  Yeah, I know. One shouldn’t joke about another one’s misfortune. But in my profession, one can’t help it.

  I handle three or four cases a day, five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. And they’re all the same. At least, they seem that way.

  First off, they’re all negligence cases. Of these, over half, probably even seventy-five percent, are trip-and-falls. The injury is usually a broken arm or leg. That’s how I can always recognize my clients—they’re the ones wearing the casts.

  For another thing, over fifty percent of my clients are black. That’s because the clients all come from TV ads, and the people who call a lawyer they see advertised on television tend to be economically challenged. Rosenberg and Stone compounds the problem by advertising largely on syndicated black sitcoms. So, as door after apartment door swings open to reveal yet another black client on crutches, I can’t help thinking it won’t be long before there won’t be an African-American left standing in all of New York.

  Needless to say, I revealed none of that to Betty Brody. I never cracked a smile. I treated her injury with the solemnity it deserved, and I had the nice lady all primed to sign the retainer empowering Richard Rosenberg to act as her attorney, when my beeper went off.

  I explained to Betty Brody that I would need to use her phone, but we could complete our transaction first. Richard Rosenberg’s prime directive is sign the clients, and I do not take kindly to interruptions at retainer-signing time. I’m not superstitious, still there’s always the chance the client’s husband, boyfriend, or whatever will come home and say, “Hey, what the hell you signing there?” and the game will be up. Not that it would matter in terms of me getting paid—still and all, I like to do the job.

  Anyway, I signed up Betty Brody and her broken leg and called the office.

  “Rosenberg and Stone.”

  “Hi, Mary,” I said.

  It was a pleasure.

  I should explain. Richard Rosenberg employed two switchboard girls, Wendy and Janet. Both were away on summer vacation, and I couldn’t have been happier. Wendy and Janet were simple tools at best. Well, that’s not fair—they were borderline competent; competent enough to have lasted this long without getting fired. But only because they were incompetent enough to be willing to work for the tiny wages Richard Rosenberg was willing to pay. The fact is, I was never able to depend on them. Any information they gave me was likely to be wrong. More than once I had had to search for a nonexistent client, phone number, or address.

  As if that weren’t bad enough, they happened to have identical voices, so you never knew which one you were dealing with. Which was a bit of a pain. I could never say, “Hi, Wendy” or, “Hi, Janet.” Worse, if god forbid I should have to call them back, I never knew which to call.

  Now they were on vacation, and Richard had hired one woman to take their place. Which in a way made sense—one competent woman to do the work of two incompetent ones. Which worked just fine. The woman was crisp, efficient, and right on the button. Moreover, she was only one person, so there was no danger of confusing her with anyone else. Plus, her name was Mary Mason, which rhymed with Perry Mason, so, bad as I am with names, I wasn’t likely to forget hers.

  “Hi, Mary,” I said. “It’s Stanley,” secure in the knowledge that she was going to give me a case and that the information would be correct.

  Wrong again.

  The message was to call Cranston Pritchert.

  7.

  “THIS BETTER BE GOOD.”

  I wasn’t kidding. Having driven all the way back from Queens to meet Cranston Pritchert in my office, I wasn’t about to take any shit. I was also billing him for the travel time.

  “It’s good. Believe me, it’s good.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Pritchert frowned. “Well, actually, it isn’t good. What I mean is, it’s something. Something concrete.”

  “Like what?”

  Pritchert dropped his briefcase on my desk, popped it open, and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  “Like this,” he said.

  I looked. It was a letter, consisting of words cut from newspaper headlines and pasted on a sheet of paper. There was no date, no greeting, no salutation.

  It said, I SAW YOU IN THE SINGLES BAR.

  “See?” Pritchert said. “What did I tell you?”

  I frowned. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was in the mail.”

  “What mail?”

  “This morning’s mail.”

  “It came to your house?”

  “No. To the office.”

  “Someone sent this to your office?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s the envelope?”

  “Huh?”

  “The envelope it came in.”

  “Oh. I don’t have it.”

  “What?”

  “I threw it out.”

  “You threw it out?”

  “Well, I didn’t know.”

  “How could you throw it out?”

  “Hey. I didn’t know. I got the morning mail. This was just one of the letters in it. I open it up, throw the envelopes away. Then I get to this.”

  I put up my hand. “I’m still not following. Where is this happening?”

  “I told you. At work.”

  “Yes, but where at work? In your office?”

  “Yes. In my office.”

  “You’re seated at your desk?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where do you throw the envelope?”

  “In the wastebasket.”

  “So it should still be there?”

  “I suppose so. Why?”

  “You didn’t fish it out after you got the letter?”

  “No. Why should I?” Pritchert said, irritably. “Look, you’re making such a deal about the envelope, what about the message?”

  “What about it?”

  He stared at me. “What do you mean, what about it? Now we know what’s going on.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes, of course. The girl was a setup, just like I said. Someone set me up because of the proxy fight.”

  “How can you get all of that from this letter?”

  “Are you kidding? Just look at it.”

  “I’m looking at it.”

  “Well, there you are. I saw you in the singles bar. What could be clearer than that?”

  “The statement is clear. The implications are not.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Not at all. It could be blackmail, extortion, a threat, or a practical joke. The intentions of the person who sent it are not clear.”

  He frowned. “What are you saying?”

  I pointed to the letter. Shrugged. “This is obviously only preliminary. Designed to fluster and upset you, so you’ll be ripe for what comes next.”

  “What comes next?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “How the hell should I know? Blackmail sounds good to me. How does it sound to you?”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Sure.”

  He grimaced, shook his head. “I don’t think it’s blackmail. I think it has to do with the proxy fight.”

  “The idea is someone trying to embarrass you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “The problem there,” I said, “is if someone were trying to embarrass
you, they simply would. I mean, what’s the worst-case scenario? Suppose they had compromising pictures of you with this girl—then why threaten you in this manner? Why not simply send a print to each and every stockholder?”

  Pritchert nearly gagged. “Good god, do you think they’d do that?”

  “Obviously not, or they wouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’d be no need. They wouldn’t need to threaten you. The damage would already be done.”

  “Uh-huh,” Pritchert said. “Now, look. I want you to do something about this.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to find the girl.”

  “The girl?”

  “Yes. She’s obviously the key to the whole thing. I saw you in the singles bar. That means, whoever it is, they saw me with the girl.”

  “So?”

  “So, we have to find her. It’s as simple as that.”

  “That’s one way to go about it,” I said. “Meanwhile, let’s see what else we can do.”

  “Else?”

  “Yeah. I mean right now. Whaddya say we take a run over to your office.”

  “My office?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What for?”

  “To get the envelope.”

  Pritchert frowned. “I don’t understand. What’s so important about the envelope?”

  “It could be a lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “First off, the address.”

  “The address?”

  “Sure. You say you opened the envelope, threw it away, and then read the letter. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “The reason you threw it away was because you had no idea there was anything special about it. So obviously the address on the envelope wasn’t cut from newspaper headlines. Was it?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “So how was it addressed?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Was it typed or handwritten?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I keep telling you, I had no idea it was important.”

  “Yes, but you know it’s important now. You knew it was important as soon as you read the letter. So think. Was the envelope handwritten or typed?”

  “I tell you, I don’t know.”

  “So,” I said, “there’s one thing we can learn from the envelope—whether it was handwritten or typed. Once we know that, it’s possible to trace it. To a particular handwriting or a particular machine.

  “Then there’s the postmark. Where and when was the letter sent? Most likely, right here from New York, but that’s something to establish.

  “Then there’s the return address. Was a phony return address used, or was there simply none?

  “You can learn a lot from an envelope.”

  “I suppose so,” Pritchert said.

  “So whaddya say we go get it?”

  Pritchert held up both hands. “No, no. I don’t want you going to the office.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you kidding? I don’t want to explain.”

  “To who?”

  “Kevin and Marty, of course.”

  “Kevin and Marty?”

  “The other vice-presidents. I told you about them,” Pritchert said impatiently.

  “Right, you did. So what’s the big deal? I could be a potential customer for all they know.”

  “Then I’d have to explain. I’m no good at explaining. They’d ask questions, I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “Fine, then I won’t go. I’ll drive you to the office, you run up and get the envelope.”

  “Drive me?”

  “Yeah. My car’s in the municipal lot.”

  “There’s a municipal lot?”

  “Yeah. On 53rd Street. Come on,” I said, heading for the door. “Let’s get the envelope.”

  “Now? You mean now?”

  “Of course now. This is a solid lead. The first one we got. Let’s go nail it down.”

  That obviously didn’t suit Pritchert’s plans. But he couldn’t seem to think of a reason not to go. He frowned, picked up his briefcase, and followed me out the door.

  8.

  I HATE MIDTOWN. IN TERMS of driving, I mean. Not only can’t you park in midtown, you can’t even stand. I hadn’t been waiting more than five minutes outside Cranston Pritchert’s office building when a transit cop came by and made me move on.

  I drove around the block once, but the son of a bitch was still there. As I slowed down, he gave me the evil eye. I gave him a frozen smile and starred around the block again.

  Third time’s the charm.

  Like hell.

  My buddy was still there, and as I drove up he jerked his thumb.

  It was all I needed. My own personal transit cop.

  Only in New York.

  When I got around the block again Cranston Pritchert was standing there. So was the transit cop, but the hell with him. I pulled into the curb, rolled down the window.

  “Where is it?”

  “What?”

  “The envelope. Where’s the envelope.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “What?”

  At that moment the transit cop insinuated himself, said, “All right, buddy, move it along.”

  “Get in the car.”

  “What?” Pritchert said.

  “I can’t stand here. Get in the car.”

  Pritchert got in, and I pulled out and headed around the block again.

  “What do you mean, you don’t have it?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “It’s not there.”

  “You mean someone took it out of the wastebasket.”

  “No. They emptied the wastebasket.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I went up and looked and they’d dumped the basket.”

  “Who?”

  “What?”

  “Who emptied the wastebasket?”

  “What do you mean, who? The cleaning people.”

  “They clean up in the afternoon?”

  “I don’t know when they clean. The fact is, they did.”

  “They dump anyone else’s basket?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Well, it’s something we should find out. I really should go up there with you.”

  “No, damn it,” Pritchert said. “I told you no.”

  “Where does the garbage go?”

  “Huh?”

  “When they dump it, where does it go? Does a guy come through with a bin, they dump the garbage into that? Or a plastic sack?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You never noticed?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  I turned the corner, pulled up in front of the building again. Believe it or not, the transit cop was still there. I kept going, headed around again.

  “All right, here’s the thing,” I said. “There’s two possibilities here. One, the garbage got dumped just as you say, or, two, someone dumped it to get rid of the envelope. I’m trying to pin down which.”

  “How could you do that?”

  “I told you. Go up there and see if they dumped anyone else’s.”

  “I don’t want you doing that.”

  “No, but you could. When you go back upstairs, that’s the first thing you should check on.”

  “I’m going to go around asking people if their garbage was dumped?”

  “Don’t be a schmuck. Are you telling me you can’t manage to wander around, take a look?”

  “I’m not a spy.”

  “No, you’re not. So you do the best you can. If the other baskets haven’t been dumped, there’s a good chance someone pilfered yours. Which would be interesting as hell. If the others have been dumped, then the question is where. If we can find out where, maybe we can get that envelope back.”

  Pritchert grimaced. “I really think you
’re making too much of the envelope. The important thing is the girl.”

  “I’ll work on the girl. But that’s later tonight. Right now, I’m working on this.”

  “And you’re driving me crazy,” Pritchert said. “If I go running around the office trying to find out where the garbage is dumped, you don’t think someone’s gonna notice?”

  “So they do. Say you think you threw out an important paper.”

  “Oh, that’s going to make me look great.”

  “What do you care how you look? We got a crisis here. We’re trying to handle it. Just say you threw something out.”

  “And they’ll want to know what.”

  “It doesn’t matter what.”

  “If it has to do with the business, it does.”

  “So say it wasn’t. Say it was theater tickets.”

  “Theater tickets?”

  “Sure. You had an envelope of theater tickets in your jacket pocket, you took it out. It got mixed up in the mail.”

  “Stop the car,” Pritchert said.

  We’d come around the block again. I pulled up next to the transit cop to let him out.

  Pritchert turned to me. “Look,” he said. “I’m glad you’re such a good liar. But I don’t think I could pull it off. Now, I’ll go back up there and take a look, but frankly I don’t think I’m going to get a thing. The key is the girl. You gotta find her. I want you to go back to the bar tonight during happy hour and turn it upside down. I can’t believe someone there didn’t see me. You either find someone who knows the girl, or you find someone who saw what she did. But I don’t think we’re gonna know what she did until we talk to her. So let’s get her.”

  Pritchert nodded in agreement with himself, opened the door and got out. Which was quite a production, him being so tall. He had to jackknife his way out of the seat. He got out, slammed the door.

  That sound was echoed by another one, closer, right in front of my face. I looked up.

  The transit cop looked smug.

  There was a parking ticket under the wiper blade.

  9.

  I WAS IN A FOUL MOOD driving back to the office. First, because I got a forty-dollar ticket for stopping in a No Stopping zone. Second, because my six-foot-six beanpole client was an asshole who couldn’t seem to do anything right, and wouldn’t let me do it for him. And third, because competent though she might be, Mary Mason had not beeped me with another case, leaving me with nothing to do.

 

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