Thank you, counselor. Mr. Clemens, I have it that you entered a plea of guilty to a conspiracy charge on October 5, 1962.
Your honor, there is an error.
Thank you, Mr. Reilly, I am addressing your client. Is that correct, Mr. Clemens?
Yes.
Were you coerced in any way to make this plea?
No.
Then I can only assume it stands.
Your honor! There is a motion to withdraw the plea.
Motion.
Yes, sir. It’s right there, sir.
Hiram Green stepped back toward the bench with a file folder. The judge looked at him, opened the manila folder, peeled off the top document, and read it through. I see, he said. Looked to the back of the room, patted the hair at his temple. No, motion denied. Without further—
Your honor, there’s a mistake here. My client, under personal duress, pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor. By mistake. It’s in the motion.
Mr. Reilly. A word to the wise, don’t interrupt. It doesn’t help anyone. Mr. Clemens, I am sentencing you to a year and a day. Under federal law, it is the minimum sentence, to be served in full.
Your honor, I move to set bail pending appeal.
No bail.
Your honor! This is a mistake.
Mr. Reilly, I can correct it. There’s a good deal I can correct for you if you’d like me to. Within my limited powers, there are still some things that I can do. Bailiff?
The stench. From dirty laundry to garbage. The bailiff fumbled at his desk. Will felt his face go cold as he turned to Kay. Her head cocked sideways, as if someone had slapped her, she was as white as soap, his girl. The bailiff picked up the handcuffs, dropped them twice, before calling his name. William Clemens? The bailiff approached the bar, came around, holding the cuffs away from his stout body like ice-cream cones dripping. He fastened them to Will’s wrists. The pink all gone from Frank’s face, all color gone, he said, Will. Don’t worry, don’t worry.
More poor advice, counselor, said the man in the pew with the briefcase. The judge turned to Hiram Green, said, Call the next case, and took off his glasses. He stuffed all the loose papers in front of him into the folder. The bailiff led Will down the short aisle. Kay stepped forward and slammed her knee hard against the pew. Come along, now, said the bailiff. The doors swung closed behind them, taking Kay out of Will’s sight. In the dark corridor, the bailiff said, Sorry to hear about your child. The remainder of the trip to West Street was silent.
When Will thought about this, it was always the very end he changed, the walk down the aisle from the bar to the double doors. Kay made it out of the bench in time. He touched her, found her face and her hands and her mouth. He knew that would have changed something. And then he thought, That’s just stupid, I’m stupid, and he let her go.
Fourth of July
Esther had great plans for the puppy, knew all about the healing properties of animals, not to mention that every boy needed a dog.
Did your brothers have dogs? That’s what I’d like to know. What Kinder boy had a dog of his own? Roy pointed out.
Maybe they should have, maybe that was a mistake. Look at you! Look at your own experience.
Exactly.
You’re not funny.
Let’s wait.
You don’t even know the difference between a life enhanced by a dog and a life diminished.
How about we wait for a remission, said Roy, so he can play with the dog. What do you think.
Are you taking a shower?
Yes, I’m taking a shower.
In the shower Roy could hear Esther laughing. She had to be on the phone, Muddy never made her laugh; besides, Muddy wasn’t home. There were too many plants in this bathroom. It was claustrophobic. Esther said, You’ve got a skylight, take advantage of it, very few New Yorkers have so much sun in a bathroom. But he was definitely getting rid of the urns with the trees, no matter how much sun he had. Esther was talking poodle. A miniature poodle. And now Roy had a small canker sore just beginning, right inside his bottom lip. This thing was already stinging. He couldn’t think of a single poodle he’d ever seen that wasn’t high-strung. He let the warm water wash his mouth.
At the sink he got a better sense of what was hurting so much. That canker sore felt like a cattle brand. What was he eating that was doing this to his mouth. Lies, Muddy said. Swallow lies and that’s what you get, a mouth full of pain. She would know. Woman who’d never had a cavity. Who never once went to the dentist to get an X ray. Lies. Whose lies had he swallowed today? Roy read the fine print on the Mercurochrome bottle.
The burgundy towel looked pretty good. Sort of good. He was losing weight, trimming down since that kid at the senator’s pool party grabbed on to him and said he’d like to ride those love handles. Smart-ass wise-ass kid. How old? Fourteen? Fifteen? Where did he get the nerve. Eyes like a Bambi and a sewer mouth. A little pudgy himself, Roy noticed. Small mounds of fat behind the knees. The kid gave him a pinch, then a wink, then he tore off for the diving board as if Roy was going to chase him. He turned around with a big grin, wet doughy face, a tiny Speedo bathing suit, no jockstrap, the whole shooting match right on display. I’ll ride those love handles, sir. Why think of these things. No wonder his mouth was a raw burn.
Side view, in this towel, everything looked pretty good. He could wear white trousers, even without a blazer. A robin’s-egg-blue shirt, maybe a vertical stripe, not that he needed it. No tie. It was brunch. It was the Fourth of July! Maybe a red linen jacket. Too much? Roy unlocked the bathroom door. The white pants. Esther would tell him the truth. She never spared his feelings on these topics.
His oracle was lying facedown on the fur coverlet, mouth open, snoring very slightly. He could see the tops of her stockings. First she’s ordering poodles, then she’s having a party on the phone, now she’s passed out. Stockings in this weather? Her thighs had small blue veins, like marble, like cheese. If he ever mentioned such a thing, instant homicide.
The phone rang twice. Roy stepped on Charlie Brown’s ear. Oh, I’m sorry, boy, he said, and the phone stopped ringing. Charlie Brown was mewing like a baby. You’re okay, buddy. Roy ruffled Charlie Brown’s fur all along his back. Someone must have picked up downstairs. Esther curled over on her left side. Charlie Brown, against strict standing orders, against everything he’d ever learned at obedience school, leaped onto the bed and nestled into the sickle shape of Esther’s body. Roy gave up. In the second closet he found a pair of black Italian featherweight slacks and a decent silk sweater, also black. Shrugged into both. Forget powder, forget everything. But then he remembered something, something Frank had said about the mail. He picked up the phone, the gold receiver heavier than an anvil, ridiculous, and dialed Frank’s home number. Twelve rings. A wife and four kids and no one answers the phone. Downstairs he heard a loud bang, maybe Muddy was back, dropping her packages.
Roy tiptoed barefoot out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He leaned over the banister. All the way down, on the ground floor, across the black and white marble tiles, he caught the swift flash of one of the office assistants, someone’s son who needed a job. The plus side of having the office right here in the house was the commute, ha-ha, the downside, strangers running in and out at all hours. Hello! Hey there! Who was on the phone? No answer.
All the way down the curving staircase, Roy wondered: Who hires these kids? He never saw them until they were handing him a list of law schools. A perfectly good Saturday, the Fourth of July! Must be a loser, a social outcast, a boy pushed too hard by the father. In the foyer, the marble cooled his feet. The door to the office suite was ajar, and light poured out from the overheads.
Hey, what’s with all the lights? Hello? No one was in the outer area. The receptionist’s desk was a beautiful old piece Roy found at auction, but Alice kept it like a trash heap. The woman had no sense of order. There was dust on the incoming mail stack, all unopened. Roy flipped through the top few envelopes just to make certain the wo
rld hadn’t ended. Every lawyer in New York had a more organized secretary than he did. It was criminal. Who was gaining from this? Muddy. He’d forgotten. This favor had been in place for half a decade.
His own door had a coat of dust on it he could see from here. When everything was over, back to normal, he’d talk to Frank about a little renovation and reorganization, because this place was not conducive to clear thinking. He’d get everyone involved. Dan would have some ideas. And Esther, obviously. Of course, the guy with the taste was Will. What was he going to do about that? What a terrible problem.
Roy drew a little hangman with his finger in the dust on the Alice’s desk. He wrote Roy under the platform. He drew a skinny little stick man holding the noose and wrote: Bobby. He drew a fat oblong, no head, with only one arm smacking the Bobby figure on the bean, and wrote Justice. There, for the permanent collection. The archives. He heard a bang in his own office. Hey! Who’s there?
Roy went over and opened the door. Nothing, empty, the usual mess. But then an odd mechanical click snapped near his desk. Who’s there? Who is that?
A tall blond boy with heavy black-framed glasses surfaced slowly, crouching, from behind the leather swivel chair. A Polaroid camera hung from a red strap around his neck.
What do you think you’re doing?
The boy straightened. The camera extruded with a slow grind a photograph that made the room smell like iodine. Roy was looking straight into the calm eyes of a contender for Mr. Universe. The kid was a specimen of something: good diet, perfect parents, air you could breathe once in a while. Why the glasses, he wondered. What are you doing? Roy asked again, though just existing might be an acceptable answer. What’s all the photo work? Are you doing some special assignment? Do you work for me?
Yes sir. No sir.
No sir? You don’t work for me? Then how did you get in here.
The door was open.
The front door?
The boy nodded.
You’re kidding. The front door was open, and you walked through it. Just like that.
Yes.
You just came in, there’s a name for that, you know. Who do you work for?
Silence. A tall blond silent boy biting his lip with teeth like a neon sign. Did people have lips like that without surgery? So, who’d you say you work for?
Freelance.
Freelance. Your own idea to walk into my home and office and try out your new camera with documents on my desk. Any expansion on this before I call the police?
Yes. You had a phone call.
Who was it?
Her name was Kay Clemens. She just said to tell you it was a no-go.
No-go? What does that mean?
She didn’t explain, Mr. Cohn.
Amazing. All right. All right. Let’s see the picture. The boy tore the cover off the shot he’d just taken. It was a murky closeup of Roy’s blotter and the top of a legal pad, with an indiscernible phone number wriggling out of the corner.
You need some lessons. You want the number of a neurosurgeon?
The boy looked vague.
Because that’s what you have. And not even all of it. What else have you got?
The boy didn’t move.
Turn around. Let me see your pockets.
The boy pulled his pockets inside out. Roy had caught him on the first shot.
Okay. Roy needed to call Kay back, needed to get ahold of Frank. Okay. Write your number down. Your name and number right here on the pad.
Excuse me, sir?
You heard me, right here, next to the neurosurgeon you’re so interested in. And then get out of here.
The boy scribbled on the pad, hand shaking. He handed Roy the Polaroid photograph.
Oh? I get to keep this? That’s fabulous. Listen. Do me a favor. Get some lessons before you break in next time. This hardly constitutes a souvenir. Roy nodded toward the door. The boy burst out of the room as if being chased, a lot of spring in the legs. I can’t believe this.
Roy stepped around his desk to read the new writing on the legal pad. Right next to the neurosurgeon, written in a wobbly cursive: I love you. No name. No number. Oh, this kid was too much. Maybe there was a clean fingerprint on the photo. There had to be. Roy thought about that for a moment. Then he started turning out the lights. He had bigger problems to solve. He dropped the photo on Alice’s desk. Maybe by New Year’s, she’d ask him what it was.
Monday, noon, Roy arrived for lunch at “21.” The place was dead. Maybe thirty people. And no one that interesting, but it was early and right in the shadow of a big holiday, still a holiday for some, the court wouldn’t be back in session until Wednesday. And now, now when he wanted it, when he was saying, Pretend you don’t know me, they were all over him. No, here, Mr. Cohn, right this way. What did he have to do to get a lousy table? When the Duchess of Windsor was with him, it wasn’t a problem. He was shipped to Siberia, next to the employee restroom, until a busboy who’d read the Daily News that day, thank God, came out fiddling with his fly and recognized who’d been put where. A lot of anxious hand-wringing ensued, but now it was hopeless, he couldn’t get out of the way if he tried. The Monday after the Fourth of July, he should be able to eat in the dark. Look, he said, I want peace. I want quiet.
Yes, sir! And he was being pussyfooted right into the first circle.
Pay attention!
The new guy, no one he knew, maybe still in training, gave Roy a stricken look. Surely he was paying attention. That was his job, his vocation.
Bo moved slowly into the dining room on his mother’s arm, no IV this time. He looked thin but good. You’re here, sweetheart! Already! I’m just getting the table. Hello, Kay.
Roy, who had come early for once, just for this purpose, just to save this kind of hovering, couldn’t get through to the imbecile in charge. Let me make it simple. A sick kid doesn’t need commotion. Find me out of the way, right now, or tomorrow your whole life will be out of the way. Am I making sense?
Well, that was easy. The dope got one good look at Bo, and bam, they were barely in the restaurant. You’ve got the stuff, kid. And Bo laughed. Yes. And all above them the model boats, and trains, and trucks. Bo looked as far back as he could stretch and his baseball cap tumbled off. The maître d’ stooped to get it, and then what?
Here, give it to me, Roy said. And get us a Dewar’s on the rocks, a Tab, and a Roy Rogers.
Roy tucked the cap back on Bo’s head, pulled down the visor. On you, this looks good. The whole thing makes sense. I love it. Roy patted Bo’s cheek. You look great.
Bo loved this place, otherwise it was pissing Roy off. The maître d’ came back with the drinks himself, making a mess. Giving the Scotch to Bo, the Roy Rogers to Roy. What was wrong with this guy? So Roy told him what he wanted, right away, to get rid of him: steak for Kay, charred and rare, tuna tartar for himself, and Bo would have a Chef Boyardee spaghetti. A flash of anguish passed through the man’s eyes. Roy took mercy. Just send someone to the corner store, he said, and delivered a twenty into his hand. Already Esther must be at FAO Schwarz trying to figure out what they hadn’t bought yet. She’d meet them here later, or maybe back at the hospital. Four minutes in, Roy could see this would be a short lunch.
Bo’s posture wasn’t so great. He sat low in his chair and studied the boats on the ceiling, and Roy studied him. Bo’s face was round with medication and his skin was white as a stone, except where little capillaries broke across his cheeks, delicate webs of red. His hands were swollen and still. Kay’s posture wasn’t so great either. She leaned in toward Bo, in a bit of a slump, but Roy knew she was slumping like a lion. He understood that. He’d buy her a thousand steaks. But this lunch was a mistake. Even though now Bo grinned at him, looked exactly like his father. And Roy was feeling a little woozy. You know, I’ll be right back, he said.
On the way out, he smacked into the maître d’. And felt he could punch this guy, if that were the kind of thing he did. It would be such a relief. Roy looked at the flush in
this useless fawning dope’s face and it made him angry. The poor distribution of health in this world. It made him deeply angry. But he forced himself to walk on. He had a phone call to make.
He dialed Alice from the front desk. Some good news was definitely in order here. He’d put out feelers to the top-notch doctor, the neurogenius. He had everyone on this, a cardinal, a congressman, a couple of movie stars just for the hell of it, what was taking so long. The phone rang and rang. At least Will couldn’t see Bo like this. Was that a blessing? Roy didn’t know. He felt so lousy, he was beginning to wonder if he’d caught something. The phone trilled on and on in his ear.
Just then the front door opened and in strolled Million-Dollar Dolly, her neck like a giraffe’s, from all the diamond necklaces, some said. Today a gold trumpet hung just below her left shoulder, sparkling rocks where the keys should be. Roy! Dolly tossed her tiny hands into the air, they landed on his shoulders as she dispersed a gardenia aroma so liquid and intense, he thought atomizers were buried in her dark French twist. Roy knew six players who claimed to be her boyfriend. Heavy hitters. Personally, Roy thought she should take it easy. He didn’t want to be around when those chips fell. He advised marriage, when asked, when Dolly came by, when the conversation moved that way. And she advised marriage in return. She had a good sense of humor. Beauty, a sense of humor, brains, in that order. Dolly fell back, breathless, into the wing chair and laughed about Roy sweeping her, etc. She twined her right leg around the left and leaned forward to twiddle the strap on a beige silk sling-back.
Roy let go of the phone. I should get you after this one, Dolly, send in the really big gun.
What are you talking about, Roy?
Just taking in the scenery, or are you meeting someone?
Someone.
Friend or foe?
The difference being?
Frank, who rarely had anything crude to say about anyone, called Dolly the Lincoln Tunnel. Anyone who came to New York, he said, went through her and paid cash. Roy knew about that, but it just didn’t rankle him the way it did Frank. He picked up the phone again to dial Alice. You have a new fiancé, Dolly?
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