Dead Money rrm-1

by Grant Mccrea

  The invisible actor.

  Odd, that.

  Must have a stage name.

  You’d think he might have mentioned that. I mean, don’t people like to brag about who they are?

  Or he’s not. An actor. At all.

  Or at least he’s never had a real gig.

  I guess that wouldn’t be all that surprising. It’s not like he was advertising himself as a movie star.

  Leave it to me, Dorita said.

  Leave what to you?

  The stage name. If there is one, I’ll get it.

  How?

  I said, leave it to me.

  Her tone did not invite further inquiry.

  All right, I said. I’ll leave it to you.

  The Jake angle seemed to be losing whatever promise it might have held.

  Let’s get on with Jules, I said.

  Why? Aren’t you anxious to keep our momentum going?

  Frankly, no. I’m a little afraid of it.

  Ah. I understand. Back to familiar territory.

  Yes. Please.

  So where are we? With Jules.

  Jesus, I don’t know.

  Let’s call Kennedy.

  Why Kennedy? Why not see Jules again? Or FitzGibbon?

  He’s got to know stuff we don’t.

  I’m quite sure he does. But I’m also sure that’s true of everybody. Especially my client.

  Probably. But Kennedy’s the most likely to give it up.

  I’m not so sure. He’s quite a tight-ass about these things.

  Have faith, said Dorita. He hasn’t had me to contend with.

  83.

  We called Kennedy. We invited him out to lunch. I vetoed Michel’s. Too close to the office. We’d run into someone that we’d rather not. And even if we didn’t run into anybody, just being that close to the office would give me a stomach ache. We settled on the White Stallion.

  When Kennedy got there he was in a good mood. His bow tie was a festive pink. We plied him with French wines and delectable pates. A bottle of Domaine Leflaive, 1998, was particularly fine.

  It was easier than I’d expected. I had to give Dorita her due. She turned on all her charm. Which when unleashed was not inconsiderable. By the time she mentioned FitzGibbon, Kennedy was too well oiled to protest. She maneuvered him into picking up the story where he’d left it off with me.

  I felt a twinge of guilt. I knew he was going to lose sleep over this, once he’d sobered up.

  But hey, I thought. I’ll blame it all on her.

  FitzGibbon had hired Fiske amp; Elliot to handle the divorce, he told us.

  Jesus, I said. Eight hundred bucks an hour.

  We can only dream, he said.

  Hey, speak for yourself, I laughed.

  Anyway, they wouldn’t give him the answers he wanted, so he fires them.

  Seems in character, I said.

  Roots around and finds some scuzzy boutique that specializes in malpractice. Committing it, I mean, not litigating it.

  Gad, I said, Jack told a joke.

  Oh shut up, he said.

  I complied. Didn’t want to interrupt the flow.

  So they look at it. And they tell FitzGibbon that Fiske amp; Elliot were right: there’s no way to get the kid off the trusts completely, unless one of the conditions isn’t fulfilled. But there’s a way to dilute his interest.

  Jules’s interest.

  Jules’s interest. They tell him that the law has changed over the years. ‘Issue’ used to mean what it sounds like it means. Your natural children. But then there were a bunch of lawsuits. Half-children. Adopted children. Whatever. And the courts began to see that the whole thing wasn’t really fair. At least to our enlightened modern eyes. Adopted children are supposed to be equal in rights to natural children. So the law changed. Adopted children are ‘issue’ too.

  Exactly, said Dorita.

  Damn, I said. I knew it. I knew that word was key.

  Dorita looked at me in dismay. For the second time that day.

  I’m not a T amp; E lawyer, I shrugged.

  You could have asked me, she replied.

  So, Kennedy went on, FitzGibbon could adopt. And the more children he could adopt, the more diluted Jules’s share would be. Because Jules’d have to share the capital with each of them.

  Slick, I said.

  Very slick, said Kennedy.

  And that’s just what he did, said Dorita.

  That’s right. He and his new girlfriend take a vacation to Spain. And they’re at the bullfights. And they see these cute little urchins, selling tacos, or whatever they sell at the bullfights.

  I thought it was Mexico, I said.

  Spain, said Kennedy.

  I think tacos are Mexican, said Dorita.

  You may be right. Anyway, it’s not hot dogs.

  Whatever, I said.

  And the girlfriend takes a shine to them. And FitzGibbon says, Hey, kids, how’d you like to come to America and be rich? And they’re, wow, that’s really cool, but we have to ask our dad.

  A technicality, I said.

  A technicality. But anyway, it turns out that Dad is right there, at the bullfight, manning the taco stand or whatever.

  Not hot dogs, said Dorita.

  And they ask Dad. And Dad’s all for it.

  Naturally, Dorita said. He’s already counting the remittances from his rich American sons.

  He’s got six other kids. He can’t feed them as it is. He sees gold at the end of the rainbow.

  We would too, in his position, Dorita said.

  We might. So anyway, they fly the kids back to the States, and FitzGibbon adopts them.

  While he’s in the middle of a contentious divorce? asked Dorita skeptically.

  Unusual, I said. But it’s amazing what you can accomplish when you’ve got enough grease to spread around.

  Does Jules know about this? Dorita asked. At the time, I mean.

  Sure. He can’t not know. But he doesn’t know the real reason. It never occurs to him.

  As far as Daddy knows, said Dorita.

  He’s quite sure of it.

  So Jules is in for a big surprise, she said.

  How old are the twins? I asked.

  That’s the real kicker. They’re the same age as Jules.

  So they’ll all reach twenty-five at about the same time.

  Not just about. The same day.

  The same fucking birthday? I said.

  The same day.

  Wow. What are the odds of that?

  I don’t know if it’s odds at work here, Kennedy said.

  Thanks for catching the irony, I said.

  I don’t know if Daddy FitzGibbon fixed that too, Kennedy continued. But it’s the official version, anyway. It’s on all the papers. Adoption papers, driver’s licenses, everything.

  My, my, said Dorita.

  Now at this point, Kennedy went on, you might ask yourself, if you’re a thinking person…

  Which I’m not sure describes Rick, said Dorita.

  … you could say, hey, it’s x million dollars. Jules still gets one-third of it. He’s still rich as hell, by his standards, right?

  By our standards, too, John, I said. Unless you’ve got something new to tell me. Anyway, you’re right. I mean, the thought occurred to me. Why would Jules care? He’s getting a big pile of dough. Enough to live on comfortably.

  Which doesn’t make what FitzGibbon did any less disgusting.

  No. Assuming his motives to be as you say.

  Life and death, though? Dorita asked. To deprive Jules of the rest?

  You never know.

  Hey, John, I said. I really appreciate this. And don’t worry about it. It stays here.

  A brief look of alarm crossed his face.

  Oops, I thought. Shouldn’t have reminded him.

  Dorita reached over and squeezed his hand. He smiled. Everything was cool.

  84.

  There was nobody in my office Tuesday morning. I ordered a tall skinny latte and
a sesame bagel. I declined the proffer of a tiny dollop of cream cheese sealed in a minuscule plastic tub. I thought about going to see FitzGibbon. I didn’t have the energy.

  I went through the Times. I had another latte. I picked up the Times again. I read the stories I’d skipped the first time. I learned that a blue moon is the second full moon in a calendar month. It happens once in a while. It’s not actually blue. It’s just unusual. There were two blue moons in 1999, though. So not all that unusual.

  I resolved to never use the phrase again. Too ambiguous.

  I still loved the song, though.

  I nodded off, Willie Nelson’s version in my head.

  I was dreaming of a girl I knew in high school. Her name was Sandra. She was soft and kind and wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I was just settling into a dreamy sofa next to her at the bar in the St. Regis when I was rudely disturbed. The pointy toe of a blue high-heeled Manolo Blahnik prodded my shin. My dream attempted to work the sensation into the narrative. But it didn’t take: Sandra was not given to kicking boys in the shins. I opened my eyes.

  Dorita stood over me.

  It’s even better than you thought, she said.

  What is?

  The info.

  What info?

  The Jake info.

  Oh. Well. I’m not sure I thought anything. One way or the other.

  So it’s even better than you didn’t think.

  Right. Whatever you say. Well. It’d better be good. You interrupted a good dream there.

  That’s my specialty.

  Why did I know you were going to say that?

  Incest.

  You’re losing me, darling.

  It’s incest. That’s why Jake changed his name. Why Brendan changed his name.

  Brendan?

  That’s Jake’s real name. Brendan Gibbs.

  Brendan? I’m going to have a hard time getting used to that.

  Get used to this: he’s a sister-fucker.

  A what?

  A sister-fucker.

  I heard you. That’s going to take some explanation. Meanwhile, I’m just a little taken aback by the moniker. I’d never heard that one before.

  I just made it up.

  You must be very proud.

  I’m proud of all my children. Now do you want to hear the story, or keep trying vainly to demonstrate that you’re more of a man than me?

  It’s a tough choice. I guess I’ll go with the story. But I reserve my right to change my mind. If it’s too boring.

  Don’t worry about that. Listen. He’s born into a fairly wealthy family in southern Illinois. Some Podunk town you’ve never heard of. Grandpa owned the general store. Dad expanded into hardware, bought a couple of franchises. You know the deal.

  I yawned.

  The family’s upright, respectable. Brendan’s uncle gets elected mayor. His mother teaches at the local school. They give to charity. They go to church. Brendan plays piano. Gets the lead role in the high school play.

  Can I go back to my nap please?

  He has a sister. She’s a stunning-looking girl.

  Ah. Now you’re talking my language. Cherchez la femme.

  Every boy in town wants to go out with her.

  But she won’t have them.

  Right. They’re not good enough for her. She’s the class valedictorian. Plays the violin. Wins the essay contest.

  Way out of their league.

  Right. She’s very close to her family. They’re enough for her.

  Perhaps too enough?

  You’re anticipating.

  That’s what happens when you put the punch line first.

  Guilty as charged. She and Brendan are close. They write songs together. She writes the music. He writes the lyrics.

  They play croquet in the backyard.

  Probably. She goes to college.

  Yes.

  That part I don’t know anything about.

  Okay.

  She graduates. She comes back home. The summer after graduation. To take a rest, before she goes back to Chicago. Start her new job.

  Brendan’s thrilled.

  A whole summer with his favorite sister.

  They play croquet.

  Whatever.

  They play other games.

  Other games.

  In other places.

  Dark and dangerous places.

  And?

  They get caught.

  Ouch.

  In flagrante.

  Delicto?

  Delicto. Wow.

  The local press goes crazy.

  A gold mine.

  Sells more papers than the latest crop figures.

  The police beat: ‘Local youth apprehended for spitting on sidewalk.’

  Right. Big-time story at last.

  Scandal.

  Excess.

  The rich brought low.

  Mega-juicy.

  They’re all over it.

  Exactly.

  Daddy must have pissed somebody off, I said. Small town, prominent citizen and all that. Figure he could have hushed it up.

  Or something. We’ll find out.

  If we want to.

  We want to.

  You want to.

  I want to. So we want to.

  Yes darling. So, we’ve got something on Jake. But what does it buy us?

  The story’s not over yet.

  Enlighten me.

  Dad shoots himself.

  Dead?

  Dead. With a shotgun. Can’t stand the shame.

  Jesus.

  Mom goes off the deep end.

  Locked away?

  Threw away the key.

  Positively Gothic.

  Delicious, isn’t it?

  Well it would be. Except I know the guy. And I kind of like him. It’s a bit of a shock.

  Life is like that.

  Shocking?

  That too.

  So then what happens?

  The kids leave town. Nobody knows where. The papers keep playing it up for a while. Eventually it dies down. Everybody’s dead or gone. Nothing new. They can only keep it up for so long.

  That’s it?

  That’s it.

  Wow.

  Yes. Very wow.

  Very wow, but how does it help us?

  I’m not sure it does.

  But it sure is interesting, I said. I mean, there’s certainly more to Jake than first appeared.

  Isn’t there?

  And so.

  And so, what other deep dark secrets might he have?

  What other things might he be capable of?

  Exactly.

  I’m not liking this.

  You don’t have to. I’ll do the liking for you. I’ll also keep doing your job for you, she said, turning on her heel.

  You could never tell when she was serious.

  I didn’t have the energy to worry about it.

  85.

  The poker game had gone upscale. Mike had found some rich guy, Trip Batson, some silver spoon investment banker type who thought it terribly cool to have a bunch of artistes over to his penthouse on East Seventy-ninth to play dirty poker for just enough to cover his monthly parking bill.

  The table was set up with napkins in silver holders, piles of pre-counted monogrammed chips, and tiny bowls of unidentifiable Japanese gunk. And a professional dealer. The scene was pristine.

  We sat. Jake asked for booze. The Philippine girl-for-hire was very accommodating. Anything we wanted. Single malt Scotch, four choices. A fine selection of wines. No beer keg, though. She was apologetic. Our host suggested that she make a trip to the corner store. Buy a few six-packs. Mike politely declined. The Scotch would be fine.

  The host explained that everyone had been allotted two thousand in chips. At the end of the night, he’d do the calculations. Whoever was short would write a check.

  I looked around the table. Everyone was having trouble keeping a straight face. Poker was a game of cash, not checks.

&n
bsp; Nobody interrupted to let him know. Nobody figured it would be their issue. Any losses amongst ourselves we could handle our own way. And nobody expected to owe anything to Trip at the end of the night.

  Not a problem there. Trip was your typical rich amateur player. To him the game was all hope and luck. When he won, he gloated. When he lost, he cursed the cards. He cursed a lot more than he gloated.

  It should have been fun. But it wasn’t. It was hard to enjoy. When I’d started going to the game, it had been entertainment, a dissolute night out with a crowd of characters I’d never get to meet at my day job. Now it was too complicated. Jake. Andrea too. I wasn’t sure what to expect from her. She could have already talked. Told the others of my abject failure of the other night. Worse yet, she could choose the game itself to make the revelation. I’d never live it down with Butch.

  But she just ignored me. I was nothing to her.

  That was the best I could have hoped for.

  Jake was a different problem. He was his backslapping self. But I couldn’t see him as I had before. My guileless and charming oddball friend. Brother in maladjustment. Now I knew that his adjustment problems made mine look like a guy with a stutter looks to Steven Hawking. His mood swings made sense now. His faraway stare. Drinking himself incoherent. Dark allusions to secrets unrevealed.

  He moved into aggressive mode. Aggressive and with an arrogance I hadn’t seen before. Not stupid aggressive. Good aggressive. He jammed a lot of pots. He stared people down. He kept up a constant chatter. I’ve got the nuts! he kept exclaiming, hand after hand, laughing hyena-like and gathering in another pot as the tight and cautious of us folded mediocre hands. When he was challenged he had the cards. We knew that all that meant was that we’d chosen the wrong hand to call him on. But his rush lasted through the night. He ended up with a pile of chips that made ours look like amateur night at the bingo parlor.

  After one particularly subtle move that garnered him a major pot at my expense, I leaned over, put him in a playful headlock and said, Do that again and I’ll have to start playing seriously, my man.

  He laughed. He punched me in the side. I twisted him sideways. We fell over and rolled on the floor. The gang gathered round, egging us on. A play fight. Butch threw himself on top of the pile. Mike poured a glass of Scotch on our heads. We spluttered up, cooled down.

  When the game was over and we were waiting for the elevator, Jake turned to me.

  Hey Rick, he said with childish glee, did I kick some ass tonight, or what?