Hubbard grabbed the beers and led me to a table, but I deliberately avoided the chair to which he had pointed, the one whose rear faced the back door of the restaurant. No way I wanted my back to anything. I wanted to be in a position to see both the front and back door.
Once we were seated, the bartender brought over a tray of another two dozen shucked oysters and put them in front of Hubbard.
Hubbard attacked the bivalves with fastidious speed. He spoke between bites, never with his mouth full. “All these arrangements!” Hubbard said. “Lots of mystery. I’ll tell you, it piqued Tony’s interest. You go fishing with him yesterday. You want to see him again this afternoon. Something big is afoot, ‘cause Frankie and Ribeye were sent out on urgent errands. Too bad they won’t be back until tonight.”
So far, things were going according to plan. While Taylor said she would handle it, I had told Taylor exactly what to say when she made the call, and Tony had believed her enough to send those two away while I was here.
“Come on,” Hubbard urged, pointing to the frosty stein, “drink up. It’s hot as hell out there.”
I ignored his invitation. “I didn’t know you worked for Micelli.”
“Work for Tony? No. I’m just . . . well, you can call my role that of a consultant.”
“What do you consult about nowadays, Hubbard? Running businesses into the ground?”
Hubbard paused to scoop down another couple of oysters. “Don’t let old times at Old Parish sour you, Schex. That was unfortunate. Sure, a bunch of folks lost their homes when their subprime loans reset at higher interest rates, and sure we had to lay off a bunch of folks at the office, but I’m proud to say that our investors came out whole.”
“I’m sure that was a big comfort to the homeowners and all the other former Old Parish employees. I feel better now knowing how well the investors did.”
“Don’t get so high and mighty with me, Schex. You know how business works. Lending is where the future is. It’s the most service-oriented of service industries. People want money, and they’re willing to pay you money for money. They pay points up front. They pay processing fees. Closing fees. Rollover fees. Rework fees. They pay interest, and then they pay principal. The trick is to stay on top of it so that you don’t ever have to foreclose on the collateral securing the loan. They used to say that the three C’s of lending were Collateral, Character, and Cash Flow. But that’s wrong. It’s all character, character, character. Lend to the right people, in the right way, and they’ll pay you back. Lend to the wrong people, no matter what the cash flow or collateral, and you’ll always come out on the short end. Old Parish investors had a good business model. I help Tony make sure his business plan is not just good but extraordinarily great.”
Hubbard sprinkled more Tabasco sauce on the oysters. “You sure you don’t want that beer? Mind if I have it, then? Good.”
He reached over, grabbed my untouched stein, and took a swig before turning back to the oysters. “Character is crucial in any credit decision. Now G.G., he was a character all right. Wrong kind, or so some thought. But Tony said it would all work out. And, thanks to you, it has – 100% return of principal, plus all interest, plus all expenses. All precisely proper and legal. That’s why I’m such a valuable consultant, Schex. Every dollar is accounted for. Taxes are paid. Audit trails are kept.”
I had never thought much of Hubbard previously, and I thought even less of him now. I unwrapped the top part of the bandages that encircled my left arm so that Hubbard could see the sliced skin held together by the butterfly patches. “I’m glad you have such gentle business associates.”
Hubbard looked genuinely pained at the sight of my scarred flesh. “These are things I don’t know about and don’t want to know about. Sometimes people are angry with Tony, and angry people sometimes carry guns. This,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the bartender, “is no different than having a guard at the front door of the bank or a metal detector at the courthouse. It’s a matter of protection. Nothing more.
Besides, what I do is perfectly legal. ”
Hubbard ate the remaining oyster. There was no napkin in sight, and Hubbard had no need of one. His hands and face were immaculate.
There was a single firm knock on the rear door behind the table.
Hubbard Estes moved the platter aside. “Tony is ready for you.”
Chapter 57
The rear door led to the interior courtyard of Torcamento’s.
Thick stuccoed walls, ten feet in height, surrounded the brick patio. Tall banana trees leaned against the walls, their wide leaves rustling, moved by the overhead fan that swirled at the end of its metal tether. The balcony above and the second-story eaves shielded the courtyard from the blistering sun. Large ferns grew in pots alongside the wall, and small ones pushed their way between the cracks in the brick.
Tony Micelli, dressed in pastels, was sitting at a black cast-iron table on which rested a plate with the remains of a half-eaten fried oyster po-boy. “Did you decide that your dreams were bigger than your grasp?”
I held out my sliced arm. “My reality is more than enough.”
“That,” he said, with apparent affability, “is an indictment of your dreams.”
There he went again, with his curious mix of legal terms and metaphors. But I could play that game too. “You act is if dreams were the only things that could indict.
Look, you did me a favor yesterday, and I’m here to return that favor.”
I pulled up a chair next to his. I described precisely, without adjectives or emotion, what happened after he left me at the dock with Frankie and Ribeye and what the two of them had said about him. I explained how they took the cash from me. I told him about the InDispoCo truck and how I leapt out and about Ribeye shooting at me.
The story first piqued his curiosity and then his anger.
Micelli’s complexion had gotten progressively more florid as I spoke. The fat folds of skin on his neck turned red. His nose, across which crept a maze of spidery veins, became fiery. Only his eyes, those dark slits, were cool.
“And . . . what . . . else? Tell . . . me . . .” Micelli said, speaking so softly and slowly that it was hard to hear him. It was as if he was building a dike around his emotions.
“That’s it. I got away. I’m here.” No need to mention Rad or Weegie.
Micelli raised his bulk out of the chair, went to the edge of the patio, and fingered one of the thick stalks of the large banana plants that towered over him. He pulled on one of the broad, flat leaves and began to crush it between his fingers.
Then, suddenly, he grasped the entire stalk with both hands. Although it was as thick as a column, Micelli wrestled it, ripping it up from the ground. Soil and leaves scattered onto the patio as he wrenched it from the earth. Cockroaches and spiders, awakened from their afternoon slumber in the dirt, frantically sought a dark spot in which to hide. Worms, the color of burnt sienna, slithered around, trying to dig themselves back into the damp humus from which they had been ejected.
As Micelli swung the stalk high above his head, the tips of the tall leaves hit the fan, sending it careening elliptically from the end of its metal pole.
Micelli flung the plant into the wall, where it clung for a moment and then slipped down, leaving a chlorophyll trail on the stucco as it settled into an odd resting position, half propped against the wall, half crushing the ferns in the pots.
Micelli came back to the table and wiped his hand on the checkered napkin.
We sat there silently for a few minutes.
When Micelli finally spoke, he wasn’t looking at me but rather was watching the spiders, worms, and roaches as they crept and burrowed away. “You know, I was good to those men. I thought I had instilled trust in them. Trust. They wanted independent companies? Fine, I gave them layer upon layer of corporate entities, each more removed from me. I trusted them to run those companies properly. They wanted security? I trusted them to achieve it on their own. Maybe it was beca
use I wanted to be independent of them as well, to separate myself from what they represented, to insulate myself.”
He pulled a few crumbs off the edge of what was left of his po-boy and tossed it into the garden, watching the scurrying bugs pause and turn in search of the food. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the old ways are better, at least sometimes. My father did not believe in trust. Fear and greed were his motivators, not trust. First and foremost was fear. But greed had to be a part of it.
“‘People have to believe they will be far worse without you than with you.’ That’s what my father always said. ‘If they’re both afraid of you and afraid of having to do without you, then you have their loyalty.’ His words. That’s how he thought. Greed was the motivator. Fear was the control. My father got loyalty. He got it from everyone.”
On the worn patio bricks, the roaches and ants scavenged the crumbs that Micelli continued to toss their way.
“At least I got half the formula right. Greed. Frankie and Ribeye have gotten greedy. But they’re not going to drag me down with them. No. There was a reason the old ways didn’t work. Somehow, you always get caught. Well, not me. Not now. Not ever. Some threats work only if you’re willing to follow them through to the final conclusion. A threat is only effective if everyone knows that it is real. But, reality catches up with you. It will catch up with them. With them, but not me.”
He continued to scatter scraps of bread. The insects hungrily grasped at the food that fell around them. “Avarice alone should be enough of a motivator. Greed can be insatiable, even without fear.”
He finally stopped feeding the vermin and turned to me. “And you, Schex. What motivates you? You could have gone directly to the police. You could have run away. And yet you’re here. Why? Only one reason. You want me to give you back the money
Frankie and Ribeye took, right?”
“I want more than the money.”
“More?”
I had played it perfectly so far. This is what I had come for. “Of course I want the money. You clearly don’t want to have those two getting it and thinking they can pull one over on you. That destroys the neat little island of protection you think you have erected.
Plus, you’ve got the cops nosing around already. G.G.’s dead. Spider’s dead. And you’re linked to G.G. and Taylor – and probably Spider as well – if people look hard enough. Yesterday on the boat you spoke of the magic of the law. Well, you need a better shield than Frankie and Ribeye. They’re only going to drag you down with them. Whatever control you thought you had over them isn’t working. And I didn’t know about Hubbard until I walked in here, but that’s a laugh. You depend on Hubbard Estes to provide a patina of legality on what you do? He can’t protect you from Frankie and Ribeye, and Hubbard will run your business into the ground. You want to do lending right? You want to stay clean? You want to stay out of trouble? There’s one way.”
“Which is?” Tony Micelli wasn’t happy. He was suspicious as hell.
“Hire me.”
Chapter 58
“Hire you? The scowl on Micelli’s face was erased as he broke into a chuckle. “I love it! You’re now suddenly both self-righteous and hypocritical. Those are great traits for a lawyer.”
“Yesterday,” I explained, “you said you were happy to have me ‘representing’ your investments. Well then, go all the way. Hire me directly and let me protect your business.”
There. I had put my new plan in motion. My old one, taking the money and running, had evaporated thanks to Frankie and Ribeye. My new plan aligned with both my current situation and Micelli’s needs.
A lawyer doesn’t take on the morality of his client. The law does not require a lawyer to be a shining knight, running to the rescue and righting wrongs. The law does not require a lawyer to strive for omniscient justice.
I was going to be the minimum that the law required in order to get my way. I was going to get back the money that Frankie and Ribeye had taken from me by being an amoral technician, by doing the client’s bidding as long as it was not flatly illegal.
Micelli wanted to stay on the legal side of the line, if only barely, and that was all right with me. He had plenty of money. I wasn’t going to represent Taylor, and with Rad planning to subpoena me, I couldn’t represent Camellia Industries. But with Micelli as my client, I’d be climbing back up the ladder, back towards the money. It might not be the ladder of respect, but I didn’t care.
The smile remained on Micelli’s face, but the humor was gone from his voice. “You’re awfully presumptuous to think you could protect me, Schex, when you didn’t even bother to read the corporate papers thoroughly enough to find out about my loan to Camellia Industries. Now, I agreed to meet with you, without Frankie and Ribeye, as a personal favor to Taylor.”
Of course. Taylor told him exactly what I instructed her to say.
“But then Taylor and I have known each other a long time. Maybe too long. Oh, she used to talk about you. Did you know that?” No, but it didn’t surprise me.
“She said that you were three things. Straight. Bright. And boring. Not right for a wild woman like Taylor. And after what she did to you, why you would want to do anything for her is beyond me, but that’s your business. You want the money? That’s OK. She called me about you, so clearly she thinks the money is hers. I don’t care. You were the escrow agent. You can have it back. What you do with it from that point on is your own business.”
“That’s a good start,” I said, leaving an opening for him to ask me what I was going to do if he hired me to represent him. But all Micelli did was stand up, a signal that our meeting was over.
He pointed to the door that led from the patio back into the bar. As I gingerly got out of the chair, careful not to use my painful left arm, he spoke with a sly tone. “You want to work for me? Prove that the legal skills you once had are back. Prove that you won’t miss the obvious. Prove that you can find the truth. Then, and only then will I consider your offer.”
So, he did want to talk about hiring me. “And exactly how,” I asked, “do you want me to prove that?”
“Easy enough. Find out how Camellia Industries got its permits in the first place. Find out why DEH allowed Camellia Industries to operate in the face of all the complaints against it. Find out about old college days and the boy.”
Why was Micelli playing games with me? He was the one who had said on the boat that I was the lawyer for his ‘investments,’ and now I had to solve puzzles? “Finding out those things,” I said, “won’t prove anything about my legal abilities. I’m a lawyer, not a detective, and you clearly know everything, so why don’t you just tell me?”
“Tell you? I can’t confide in you, Schex. You’re not my lawyer. Not yet, at any rate. Come the day you work for me, we’ll have a nice, long, confidential chat. Until then, I’m just a dispenser of clues.”
“What about the money?”
“I meant what I said. You can reasonably expect that the money will be returned in due time. Don’t you realize that money itself is just a metaphor? You want little pieces of green paper? OK, you’ll have them. But they’re just that. Paper. You want to transform them into something else? Electronic bits in a wire transfer? A line of ink on a cashier’s check? An entry in a column? They’re all metaphors, don’t you see, until they become something tangible. A table. A chair. A sandwich. Until then, you’re living with a pocketful of metaphors.”
“I don’t need metaphors. I need the cash,” I said firmly.
“Impatience is a bad trait for an attorney, Schex. Stick to hypocrisy.”
I turned to leave. I had come all this way and had gotten nothing, only vague promises wrapped in verbiage, plus a scavenger hunt through the past.
“By the way,” he added, “one more piece of information to ponder. You might ask Taylor how well, in the biblical sense, she ‘knew’ Carter Herrington. Or his randy nephew, Trey.”
Chapter 59
Although Micelli hadn’t hired me on the spot, at lea
st a portion of my plan was underway. Micelli had indicated that I might get the money back in due time. That meant he was going to deal with Frankie and Ribeye.
Washington and I sat in his backyard, resting in metal lawn chairs under the shade of trees Washington had planted years ago, watching the sky form a neon canopy as the sun set. Large bees flew noisily from flower to flower in Durnella’s garden. Luther ran around snapping at them.
Just an hour earlier we had returned to Baton Rouge. We drove around my block several times to check it out. The neighbors’ cars we recognized. No strange people were around. Even so, we took no chances. Washington and I went through the back gate of his yard to my rear door. We didn’t bother to try to clean my house. We just lowered the shades to keep prying eyes out. I threw a razor and a couple of days’ worth of clothes into a paper bag and locked the house up as best I could.
The late afternoon odors surrounded us – the moist smell of freshly cut grass, the sweetness of the green figs that hung in the tree above, and the distinctive scent of tomatoes ripening on the staked plants that Durnella carefully tended.
Intertwined with this bouquet of aromas was the menthol salve Durnella had applied gently under the freshly wrapped bandages on my arm and neck. It mingled with the effervescence of the beer in my nostrils.
From where we reclined, we could see my driveway and the back and south side of my house, but we were hidden from the view of anyone driving by in front of my place. I was waiting to see if Kirk/Kuo showed up after sending that urgent note. Or Frankie and Ribeye. Or anyone else.
The shadows lengthened as the sun went down. Washington put his feet up on the table that was placed between the chairs. Luther came and put his head under the elderly man’s hands, and Washington absent-mindedly scratched the dog behind his ears. The chairs and table, although old and well used, were immaculately kept and looked freshly painted. Just like Washington’s house.
“Neighbor, you can sit here all night waitin’ for that Chinaman to come, but just sittin’ don’t necessarily make you any wiser.”
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