Marked Man

by William Lashner

  “I always admired Johnnie. Hardly anyone looks good in a black knit cap, but he pulled it off with style.”

  “Maybe after the article you could charge as much as he did.”

  “So now you’re appealing to both my pathetic hunger for fame and my venality.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Can I ask you a question? The man you saw in my office. Did you know him?”

  “That little gnome? No, thank God.”

  “Why ‘thank God’?”

  “Didn’t you sense it, the violence in him? I did. I’ve seen enough of that sort in my life. What did he want?”

  “He was appealing to my venality, too. It seems to be a disturbing pattern.”

  “Then maybe there is something else I can appeal to.”

  “Rhonda, are you propositioning me?”

  “Oh, Victor. Don’t be silly. It’s just a story.”

  “Too bad.”

  “What I meant is that maybe I could appeal to your sense of charity. I’ve been fighting to break through at my newspaper for a while. I fell into this business late, and it’s hard being a stringer, but my editor said if I can make this story happen, he’d push to hire me full-time. All I need to make it happen is an interview with Charlie. In person if I can, by phone if I have to. You would be giving a huge break to a struggling reporter.”

  “We all have our jobs to do, Rhonda.”

  She gently took hold of my biceps, gave me a tug. “Please, Victor. I really need this.”

  I stopped, turned toward her, saw her green eyes swell with hope, and I felt an ache. It frightened me what I felt, an ache of wanting. She was a reporter—a life-form lower than a ferret, lower even than a lawyer—and I had no doubt but that she was trying to manipulate me for her own ends, anything for a story, but still I felt the ache. And yes, she was pretty, and yes, I liked her offhand manner, and yes, she treated me with an appealing lack of respect, but no, even then I could discern that my feelings had little to do with the truth of her inner being and everything to do with some pathetic need of my own.

  I had felt the same ache for a bicyclist with long blond hair and pretty pink riding shoes who had asked for directions on the parkway. And before that I had felt it for a woman in a short black skirt whom I had spied across the street and who, without bending her legs, had leaned down to tighten the laces on her bulky black shoe. I could walk along the street during my lunch hour and fall in love a dozen times and feel the ache as each woman strode on through her life without me. And it was undoubtedly the same ache that had driven me, insensible with drink, to tattoo a stranger’s name upon my chest in a declaration of love.

  Either I was a wildly warm and openhearted person or my life was in serious trouble. And, unfortunately, I am not that warm and openhearted a guy.

  Yet still, even if all those other supposed emotional connections were the result of some existential psychosis of the soul, who was to say that this emotion, the one I was feeling right now toward this woman with the blazing red hair and freckled face, might not be the real deal?

  “Rhonda,” I said with a slight stutter, “maybe we can go out sometime and get a drink.”

  She slipped on a sly smile. “Does that mean…?”

  “We’ll talk about it over a drink. And maybe, if everything feels right and the circumstances allow it, maybe I’ll talk to my client about you and your article.”

  “That would be just so great, Victor,” she said. “Thank you, thank you so much. When?”

  “I’ll get back to you,” I said. I glanced again at my watch. “But right now I have an eviction to fight.”

  15

  There are about fifty cases on the list each day in Courtroom 500 on South Eleventh Street, the city’s housing court, yet only about three of those cases ever get tried. Instead most business is conducted, as in all courthouses, in the hallways, which is where Beth and I stood before our hearing when we were approached by a man with blond hair and a snappy green suit. About my age, but you could tell he had climbed higher on the legal ladder, which meant that I disliked him right off.

  “Victor Carl?” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought so. Funny, you look younger on TV.”

  “And heavier, too, I suppose.”

  “No,” he said. “Not really. Just younger and better dressed. Wait, please, I have something for you.”

  He balanced his briefcase on his palm as he unsnapped it open and pulled out an envelope, which he handed to me.

  “A notice of eviction for your client, ordering her to depart her premises at the expiration of her lease,” he said with a smile. “Personally delivered. Give it to Ms. Derringer for us, will you?”

  I nodded and handed it over to Beth. “Here you go.”

  “Ah, so you are the recalcitrant Ms. Derringer,” said the man. “My name is Eugene Franks, of the law firm of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase, and I represent your landlord.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, her voice sounding neither charmed nor sure.

  “I’m so sorry that your notice of eviction was only sent by mail and not personally delivered or nailed onto your door pursuant to the letter of the law, as your lawyer here pointed out in his rather voluminous brief. Actually, many of our tenants find mail delivery less embarrassing, not to mention less harsh on the front door, but from now on everything will be taken care of exactly by the book. We still expect you out when your lease expires.”

  “I don’t think so, Eugene,” I said. “Her original lease was in excess of one year, so your notice has to give her at least ninety days. From the date of notice. Which, based on this, is today.”

  “Aren’t you being a little technical, Victor?”

  “We’re technicians, Eugene, you and I. Being nontechnical is akin to malpractice. When is construction scheduled to start at the building?”

  “Next month.”

  “Ooh,” I said as I winced dramatically. “That might be hard, with a tenant living in the building. Does your building permit allow knocking down walls and ripping up floors with a tenant still in residence? And the building is quite old. I wonder if there’s any asbestos in the walls and ceilings. That would mess up the schedule even more than you already have, don’t you think?”

  He leaned toward me, lowered his voice. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Sure,” I said. I waved Beth over to one of the benches and then stepped with Eugene Franks to the far side of the hallway.

  “Nice brief,” he said.

  “I try.”

  “We all had quite the laugh at the firm. Do you really think that the Fourteenth and Sixteenth Amendments to the United States Constitution really have any relevance here in housing court?”

  “Maybe you should keep laughing in front of the judge. I’m sure she finds the badges and incidents of slavery hilarious.”

  “But your client isn’t even black.”

  “Wait till you hear the argument.”

  “I’m on pins and needles.” Eugene pursed his lips at me. “Weren’t you the one who took down William Prescott a couple years ago?”

  “I might have been.”

  “Prescott was the first lawyer at the firm I ever worked with. He was my mentor, he gave me my first big case, and you ruined his career.”

  “Prescott ruined his own career,” I said. “I just pointed it out to the proper authorities.”

  Eugene Franks looked hard at me for a long moment and then turned away. “I never liked the son of a bitch. What can we do to make this disappear, Victor?”

  “She doesn’t want to move.”

  “It’s just a move. She’ll find a better place. It’s no big deal.”

  “Not to her.”

  “We only want to spruce the place up, sell the new units, make some money. We’re not bad guys here.”

  “I know.”

  “How much money are we talking about to get her out within the month?”

  “Money’
s not the point. It never is with her.”

  “I find that distressing.”

  “Don’t get me started.”

  “You know, Victor, it sounds a little Zen, but change happens. The building is going condo. Can you talk to her, please? Can you see what we can work out before we have to start arguing about the Sixteenth Amendment in front of the judge?”

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  Beth was sitting on a bench in a strangely passive position, hands on knees, head lolling slightly to the side. Normally before court she was a bundle of energy, sitting on the edge of her chair, her body in constant motion as she worked out the arguments in her head. But not today, not here, in the unusual position of litigant in the case of Triad Investments, LP. v. Derringer.

  I sat down next to her. “I bought you some more time,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I can try to string it out a little longer. I have some arguments for the judge.”

  “I read the brief. Your arguments are hopeless.”

  “I know, but I liked the way Franks there must have sputtered when he read them. And the judge can always take longer than expected to make a ruling. I could talk to the clerk. I think I know his brother.”

  “Okay. That might work.”

  “But you know, Beth, this Eugene Franks, he’s not such a bad guy after all.”

  “In that suit he looks like a frog.”

  “And the people he represents are not evil. They’re just businesspeople.”

  “They’re kicking me out of my home.”

  “They’re allowed. By law. You’re eventually going to have to move.”

  “So they say.”

  “And fighting it isn’t really the answer.”

  “But it sure feels good.”

  “Beth, what’s going on, really?”

  “I don’t know, Victor. I feel…paralyzed. It’s not that I even like my place so much. It’s just that I can’t face the idea of packing everything up, looking for a new apartment, moving, unpacking everything again, and it all being the same, the same bed, the same table, the same existence. Ever since that thing with François and the dredging up of the memories of my father, my life has taken on this weird momentum, just rolling along of its own accord toward nowhere. I don’t find it particularly satisfying, and I don’t seem to have the courage to direct it in any particular direction. But maybe, I think, if I can just stay in my stinking apartment for a few more stinking years, everything would be perfect.”

  “Your logic is impressive. But things aren’t as bad as you make them out to be. Look at the firm. Business is better every day.”

  “We’re getting by, and it seems like that’s all we’ve been doing for years now. Getting by.”

  “We’re fighting the good fight. What about Theresa Wellman? We’re going to win her back her kid.”

  “You’re going to win her back her kid. I feel like I’m just along for the ride. I need to do something, but I don’t know what.”

  “What do you want to have happen here, today? How about getting some money?”

  “Okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Money’s good. It would be fun to have a yacht, don’t you think? Blue blazers, white pants.”

  “It’s a good look for you.”

  “I should have been born a Pierpont.”

  “It won’t be much, but I can get you something. Though you’ll have to move out by the end of the month.”

  “All right.”

  “Really? I’m surprised. It’s not like you to give in to the lure of easy cash.”

  “I’m sorry, Victor. This whole thing is stupid. I should never have dragged you into it, especially with Theresa’s case coming to trial and you running around making a deal for Charlie Kalakos. I should have looked for a new place as soon as I got the notice. I guess I’m a little lost.”

  “We’re lost together.”

  “I don’t know, you’ve looked happier lately.”

  “It’s because I’m in love. With a reporter.”

  “Really?”

  “At least today. Yesterday it was a girl on a bike.”

  “I guess you’re looking for something, too.”

  “Guess so. And remember when that dental hygienist tore up my apartment?”

  “Sure.”

  “I haven’t fixed it up yet.”

  “Victor?”

  “It’s still trashed.”

  “Victor.” She laughed darkly. “That’s pretty bad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “All it would take is one visit to IKEA.”

  “But I hate IKEA, all that blond wood and Swedish cheer. My name’s not Sven, I’m not still in college, I don’t even know what a loganberry is. An IKEA apartment would be the death of me.”

  “My God, Victor, you’re in worse shape than I am.”

  I pressed my chest, felt the sting of the new tattoo still on my flesh. “And you don’t know the half of it. Always remember, Beth, however much trouble you’re in, I’m in more. Why don’t I go now and see what kind of money I can get for you?”

  “Okay.”

  I stood up and turned toward Eugene Franks, who was staring at us with hope on his face.

  “How much are you looking for?” I said to her quietly.

  “Whatever.”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  I shook my head as I made my way over to Franks. He raised his eyebrows.

  “No deal,” I said. “Sorry. She absolutely, positively could not be bought. She intends to stay in her apartment until the very last hour. It’s the principle of the thing, she said.”

  “I hate principles,” said Franks. “They have no place in the practice of law.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “But that’s the kind of woman she is.”

  “There’s nothing you can say?”

  “I tried,” I said. “I tried everything. Let’s go in and stand in line, tell the judge we’re going to trial. We’re somewhere at the end of the list, so we should get called by midafternoon.”

  He looked at his watch. “I can’t be here all day waiting for this stupid case. I have a meeting with the managing partner and a new client.”

  “Stanford Quick, right? The guy who represents the Randolph Trust.”

  “That’s his pro bono client. The rest are all corporate giants.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Typical bastard. Doesn’t like to be kept waiting by mere associates.”

  “Sorry, Eugene, but she’s adamant. If you want a continuance, I’d have no objection—”

  “Do you have any idea how much we’ll lose every day construction is delayed? I have to handle this today.”

  “Okay, then. I guess we have no choice but to take this to the judge.”

  We stepped together toward the courtroom doors, swung them open. The noise and smell hit us all at once. Housing court that day was like the Emma Lazarus poem at the base of the Statue of Liberty come alive: the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, homeless and tempest-tossed.

  Franks sniffed and took one step back. “What about, Victor, if we come up with a figure that just out-and-out wows her?”

  “Well, Eugene,” I said, shaking my head with a sad certainty, “I doubt that will do it, but we could always try.”

  16

  The candle and incense, the darkness and thick, plague-infested air, the piled pillows at the head of the bed, the racking cough, the specter of death crouching like a gargoyle on the thin, aged chest.

  “You want cup coffee, Victor?”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Kalakos.”

  “I’ll shout down to Thalassa, she brew pot. Insipid what she brews, more like spit than coffee, what with her using the grounds over and over, but still you can have.”

  “Really, I am fine.”

  “Come close, then. Sit. We need talk.”

  I came close, I sat. She reached her hand to my cheek. I tried not
to flinch at the feel of her oily skin, the waft of her breath.

  “You been on TV. My Charlie, he’s become a celebrity because of painting. Which is funny, since my Charlie, he couldn’t draw a dog.”

  “Someone else went to the press about the painting.”

  “Not you, Victor? You seem to enjoy it so. Then who?”

  “I don’t know, but once it was out, I thought giving the interviews was the best thing for Charlie. But it might not have worked out that way.”

  “What’s matter, Victor? You have problem?”

  “Charlie does, yes,” I said. “I need you to get him in touch with me.”

  “Of course. But tell me first, what is trouble?”

  “I really need to talk to Charlie about it,” I said. “He’s the client.”

  “But he’s my son, Victor. I know what he needs. It always was such, and is no different now. None of us ever change, and Charlie, he changes less. You tell me his problem, I tell you how to solve.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that, ma’am.”

  She made some sort of hacking sound, and then the coughing began, great heaping coughs that brought her body into spasm. In the middle of it all, she raised her right hand, let it hover in the air for a moment, and then slapped my ear, hard.

  “Ow.”

  Her coughing subsided as quickly as it began. “Don’t tell me ‘can’t,’” she said. “You have obligation.”

  As I rubbed the side of my head, I said softly, “What obligation?”

  “Whether you know or not, it wraps round your neck like snake and it is alive. So don’t say ‘can’t’ to me, Victor. You have good Greek face, but you not Greek enough down there to say ‘can’t’ to me.”

  “What favor did you do for my father?”

  “Why you ask me? Ask him. Or are you afraid of him, too?”

  “Not afraid, exactly.”

  She barked out a laugh, bitter and understanding all at once. “I wouldn’t want to have to call your father again. It upsets him so to hear from me.”

  “I bet it does.”

  “So now that this nonsense is finished with, tell me about my Charlie.”