They sat on a bench together in Carroll Gardens, watching old men in black jackets playing bocce, schoolchildren playing tag. The sky seemed lower, as if being pushed down by an enormous slab of gray steel. Michael thought of aircraft carriers, their decks stripped and lifted by giant cranes, then welded together until they stretched across the heavens. Had Michael resented having to care for Jerry? Some. Still, the days he had spent alone in their apartment with his brother were among the happiest of his childhood—the only times when the rooms were quiet, when he could be close to Jerry, could tend to him without being scolded—times when Jerry felt free to return Michael’s affection.
Langiello asked if Michael had talked with his ex-wife since their last interview. She had called two nights before, Michael said, at three in the morning, exploding at him with obscenities, threats, accusations; and she had called again just a few hours ago, before he left for the hospital, to wish him good luck in his interview with Langiello. She had sounded rational, normal. She had told him that she was still willing to get back together.
“And I’ll bet she’s been giving the kids the same line,” Langiello offered. “Sure. I know all about it. The kids need a punching bag and you’re it. They’ll know the difference, though, Mike. Kids are resilient. I mean, they’ll take her side now—she’s the victim, right?—but you’ll get your reward some day.”
“Maybe.”
“You will, Mike. I’ve seen enough of these cases to know. The open agenda is reconciliation—the hidden agenda is revenge. Hot and cold, cold and hot. The problem is that they had this great family once upon a time, see, and now they don’t—and she gives them a story that helps them make sense of what can never really make sense. It’s what I was trying to tell you before, about going to court: it’s not who’s right or wrong that counts, but who comes up with the best story. What you need is a good story, Mike.”
“Jackie’s story?”
“Not a bad idea.” Langiello laughed. “I got close to him once, at this clinic for our team at Ebbets Field. I was in a group assigned to him, him showing us how to take a lead, get a jump on the pitcher. Jesus! I forgot about that for ages.”
“Where did you go—New Utrecht?”
“Yeah. I played second base, only I wasn’t much. Good-field no-hit. You play baseball at Erasmus?”
“No.”
“I remember how great you were in basketball—first team all-city, right?”
“Yes.”
“For a little guy you were something else, Mike. We had these two big Italian guys that clogged up the middle—surf and turf, we called them—and in practice our coach got this kid from the JV to try to imitate you, the way you’d dribble through any defense we could throw up.”
“You were on the team?”
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“Maybe I was hoping you’d remember me.” Langiello shrugged. “Ah, I wasn’t much. Seventh man, my senior year. They’d send me in for surf or turf if they got into foul trouble.”
Michael tried to picture Langiello as an eighteen-year-old, in uniform. He tried to recall the game, but instead he saw Jerry running in circles around the schoolyard, screaming with joy, a basketball held tightly against his stomach.
Langiello laughed. “You faked me out of my jock once, going in for a drive, I didn’t know what happened, you were so quick.” Langiello leaned forward, hands clasped. “You were all-Ivy at Dartmouth too—I remember following you in the papers, but you never went to the pros. In those days I guess you could make more being a hotshot doctor than an athlete. You read about the contracts these guys get now, out of college? It really pisses me off, you want the truth, twenty-year-old kids making all that dough.” Langiello paused, cocked his head to one side. “Let me ask you something, Mike. How much do you think I earn, the job I got?”
“I don’t know. You have a law degree, don’t you?”
“I have a law degree. Brooklyn Law School, Class of ’68. But take a guess at how much I make. C’mon—”
“I’d rather not.”
“Twenty-three thousand.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. Sure. But I got no complaints. I mean, I like my work, right? Child-abuse cases mostly—I get to be guardian ad litum for a lot of kids, get to make a difference in their lives.” He stood. “And I get to meet some fascinating people too, right?”
Langiello suggested that he walk Michael to the subway, that Michael had more important things to do than to pass the time of day with a guy like him. Michael clenched his fists, angry with himself because he hadn’t seen that each time Langiello had asked him a question he had doubtless been hoping Michael would ask one back, would show interest. They stopped at the Gowanus Canal, leaned on the bridge railing, looked down into water that seemed thick with black clouds. He answered a few of Langiello’s questions, then asked him about his work with child-abuse cases.
“Ah—crazy things go on behind doors once people close them,” he said. “And the craziest thing of all is how most of the time, the women and the kids, banged up to hell, all they want is for us to get the fathers to live with them again. They’ll almost always drop the charges if only the bastard will come back home.”
“I’m not surprised,” Michael said.
“You know what the hardest thing in the world is, Mike? It’s getting a kid not to love a parent.” They came to the Bergen Street subway station. Langiello said he would be seeing Mike’s ex-wife later in the afternoon. Langiello smiled. “But don’t worry, okay? You’ll get more time with the kids. I promise—”
“Thanks,” Michael said. He moved toward Langiello, wanting to touch the man. “I wish I—”
“No need to say anything,” Langiello said. “I mean, it’s been good to reminisce about the old days, the way things were when we were growing up. Times change, Mike. Times change and who’s ever ready?”
They shook hands. Michael watched Langiello walk off, then started down the steps. He felt exhausted suddenly—drained—and he couldn’t understand why. All he wanted to do was to lie down, to dream of lush green lawns and pale blue skies. Three teenagers, two in black leather jackets, stood below, where the staircase turned.
At the landing he made a right turn, then saw bright lights flare inside his head, welding sparks spraying crazily. A hand was jammed over his mouth so that his teeth cut into his lips, drew blood. He was being dragged backward by both arms. He resisted, saw a knife blade flash. He relaxed, let himself be led to an alcove. He stood on a soft mass of wet newspapers. Above him were rusting girders, sagging wires, a clogged grating coated with swirls of brown slime.
“Don’t fight back. We ain’t your enemies, okay? We don’t want to hurt you unless we have to.”
Michael nodded. They were taller than he was. The man in front of him was well built, wore a black T-shirt, the sleeves cut off.
“You a friend of Langiello’s?”
“Not exactly.”
“What’s it worth to you if we take care of him?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t give me crap. We know what Langiello does, the hold he got on you. You want us to do a job on him, it’ll cost you five thousand bucks, cash, unmarked bills. Five thousand ain’t much for a rich guy like you, the clothes you got on.”
“Hey Lobo—ask him if he owns oil wells.”
“Shut up, jerk.” Lobo pulled on Michael’s tie. His eyes were dull, without cleverness. Michael thought of sludge at the bottom of the Gowanus Canal. Why did he call himself Lobo, Spanish for wolf, when he was not Spanish? “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Oh yeah? What kind?”
“A surgeon. An orthopedic surgeon.”
“Langiello makes bundles off guys like you.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Michael said coldly. “I have nothing against Mr. Langiello.”
“But he got plenty against you, I be
t. He always does. Who’d you beat up, your wife or your kids? You rape your seven-year-old daughter, mister, or are you one of them new kinds of pervert who gets off on old people?”
“I haven’t touched anybody. You’ve made a mistake.”
“Don’t crap with us.” Lobo sliced buttons from Michael’s jacket, one at a time. “What’s he got on you? C’mon. How much you gotta pay him so he don’t have his uncle send you up the river?”
Michael moved forward.
“If you’ll excuse me, I—”
He saw the gun pointed at his chest.
“We’re on your side, mister,” Lobo said. “Believe me, okay? We just want to talk with you for your own good, understand? You want the truth, there’s lots of guys on your side. Lots of guys would chip in for a contract on Langiello. His uncle’s the judge, see—”
“I know that.”
“Only there’s no profit in us killing the judge. You will one judge, there’s another judge in his seat the next day. But Judge DiGregorio, he only got one investigator who’s his nephew. You get rid of the nephew, you’re home free. You think it over, who you can trust, us or Langiello. Like they say, our rates are competitive.”
“My story is different,” Michael said. “I’m not involved in child abuse. I was divorced. I have three children. My ex-wife and I are in court because of a custody dispute. I don’t think Mr. Langiello means me any harm. Really. I—”
“Let him go,” Lobo said.
The two men released Michael’s arm. He heard a switchblade click shut, but not before it had slashed his jacket, upward, on the right side, from the waist to the armpit.
Langiello smiled and shook Michael’s hand, asked if Michael had had breakfast yet. He tapped a manila envelope, said that his report was ready for the judge. He was sorry he’d made Michael come out so early, but he had to be in court by ten o’clock for a child-abuse hearing. Michael ordered coffee, talked about how cold it was outside—a freakish hailstorm turned to slashing rain, crazy for the first week of spring—and of how, coming along the street from the subway station, he had seen daffodils and crocuses sheathed inside ice, looking as if they were made of stained glass.
Michael was surprised at how good he felt, how relieved he was to know that the report was complete, that the ordeal, for him and the children, would soon be over. And he was pleased too, he knew, simply to be in Langiello’s presence again, to feel that he had an ally, somebody who understood that, despite all his worldly successes, he was still just an old Brooklyn schoolyard ballplayer heading for his middle years.
Michael sipped coffee, talked about his children, his brother. He said that when the trial was over he intended to have his children spend more time with Jerry. He wondered: should he mention having met Lobo and his two henchmen the week before? He didn’t want even to appear to be testing Langiello, to be doubting him.
“Listen,” Langiello said. “I always like to do this with clients—not all investigators do—but before I file my report I like to sit down with them and tell them what’s going to be in it. I like to be up front.”
“Of course.”
“Your case has been a real tough one for me, Mike, and I guess the main thing I want to say to you—and I hope this is a help, given how much pain you’ve been in—”
“Pain?”
“The stuff you told me last time about how it hurts you to take crap from your kids all the time, to be their nigger—how your kids are always taking their mother’s side.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your kids love you, Mike,” Langiello said. “Absolutely.” He paused, leaned forward, his eyes suddenly bright. “But they don’t like you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Michael tried to laugh. “I know they love me,” he said. “I never doubt that. As for liking me—well, they’re in a real bind, as I explained. If they even let themselves think they like me—that I’m not the monster who made everything go bad—it makes them feel they’re rejecting their mother. The more they punish me emotionally, the more brownie points they earn with her. That’s why I—”
“Mike,” Langiello said sharply. “You’re not listening to what I’m saying. That’s one of the things the kids said too—that you never really listen to them, that you always have to be right, that you think you’re perfect.”
“That’s ridiculous.” In his mind, Michael was on the court at Madison Square Garden, looking toward the bench, seeing the coach tell him to slow down, to take his time in setting up the next play. “Look,” he offered, forcing a laugh, hoping to appeal to their common past. “I missed a foul shot in a game against Jefferson that almost cost us the championship my senior year, didn’t I?”
Langiello stared at Michael without expression. Michael thought of Lobo’s dull brown eyes. He thought of daffodils thawing, wilting. He thought of reaching inside his chest, of sawing ribs, retracting muscles, of stroking his own heart gently, of calming it.
“I mean, there are dozens of times I admit to them that I was wrong about something, that I made a mistake,” Michael continued.
“They love you, Mike, but they don’t like you. Can you hear what I’m saying? I’m telling you the truth. I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t understand,” Michael said. “Last week you said you were going to give me more time with them, that—”
“I hadn’t met your kids yet. I hadn’t met your wife either.” Langiello paused, as if daring Michael to reply. “They’re good kids, Mike, and she’s a terrific mother. And what I think is that they’ve shown a lot of courage in putting their lives back together since the divorce.”
“Courage?”
“The kids want to live with their mother, Mike. Can you hear me?”
“But they have to say that. If they don’t, they’re scared she’ll stop loving them—don’t you see that?”
“No, Mike. I really don’t. I don’t think you give your kids enough credit. They said that too—that you never believe them.”
“Oh come on,” Michael said. “I’ve never said such things to them. What’s going on is your garden-variety emotional blackmail and you know it. I mean, ask yourself this question: Would the kids ever be able to tell her they want to live with we?” Michael stopped, realized his voice was rising. “When they’re afraid to reject me or criticize me, then I’ll worry. Then—”
“You’re not listening to me, Mike.” Langiello sat back. Michael saw himself passing off, circling under the basket, getting his wind back. He wondered if Langiello had an arrangement with Lobo, had sent Lobo. He wanted to be ready for Langiello’s moves, to be alert to all possibilities.
“I don’t understand,” Michael said again. He looked down. Play defense, he told himself. Stall. He decided to try letting Langiello think he was bewildered, wounded. Perhaps if he didn’t threaten him, if he gave him his ounce of flesh…
“Let me put it this way,” Langiello said. “I met your kids and I met your wife. She’s a wonderful woman, Mike—soft-spoken and somewhat shy, I’ll admit, but warm and loving and gentle and—”
“Sure. When she doesn’t have a knife in her hand.”
“You’re interrupting me again.” Langiello smiled. “You can’t resist, can you?”
Michael said nothing. He tried to let his mind go blank. He tried to let it fill up with air, but as it did he saw gray swirls of smoke, he smelled coffee and bacon, he saw fragrances drifting through his head as if through canals, as if they were dyes that had been injected into his spinal column and were journeying toward his brain.
“I listened to everyone,” Langiello went on, “and what I kept asking myself was this: What was it that could have caused a woman like this to act the way she did? I mean, I admit her behavior’s been bizarre—but what I wanted to know was what made her get that way?”
Michael let his shoulders sag. There was no way he was going to win, he realized, and what surprised him was neither Langiello nor his own foolishness in having trusted La
ngiello, but something else: that he was still willing to trust Langiello, if in a totally unexpected way. He almost smiled, but he didn’t want to give himself away, he didn’t want Langiello to know that what he was tempted to do suddenly was to throw aside all his old rules—his crazy devotion to fairness. For the first time in his life he was tempted, he realized, to make a deal, to offer a bribe, and the discovery delighted him.
He tried to play the scene out in his head, before it happened. What if Langiello were to double-cross him after being paid off? What if Langiello took the money and submitted his report without changing it? Michael could, he saw, lose both ways: he could lose the children and lose in his own eyes—for having betrayed a set of values that…that what? Michael looked up.
“And what did you decide?” he asked. “What was your answer?”
“You’re a tyrant, Mike,” Langiello said. “It’s as simple as that. You were always the big shot—the powerhouse. She showed me notes you left for her when she was putting you through medical school, when she didn’t do things exactly the way you wanted—”
“But that was before our problems—almost twenty years ago.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind that she struck out at you through the kids and did a lot of crazy things—I mean, who doesn’t when a marriage breaks up?—but it’s also clear to me, and this is the essence of my report, that you drove her to it.”
Don't Worry About the Kids Page 2