by Bruce Wagner
This isn’t about me.
When not obsessing, he monitored his own neuroskeletal pain, the scale of which seemed absurd next to anything Maurie was going through, but still, it was there, it was authentic, and this man, afterall, had caused it. No way around that one. What if he, Chester Herlihy, needed surgery related to the FNF fiasco, what if something went wrong with the anesthesia or scalpels and Chess wound up in the same condition? He knew it sounded like an elaborate justification yet what if what had happened to Maurie was a macabre preamble to the very fate that awaited him? Maybe Maurie was a kind of burnt offering. He would be damned if he’d let someone put him under, slit his flesh open with a rongeur, and remove the soft discs between bony vertebrae before fusing everything together courtesy of a titanium cage. Fuck that.
The hippie and the scout slept together like siblings. They hadn’t done it since that time in the desert, probably because now they were even more shell-shocked and self-conscious. They never referred to their post-ER Morongo moment; it was clear they’d copulated as a reptilian reaction to death, a fairly common occurrence from what Chess had heard. People came back from war zones or funerals or what have you and their animal instincts kicked in. In the face of death, the species shouted (or grunted): breed.
LAXMI was stoned. She sat on the couch tearfully watching The Jungle Book for about the hundredth time.
The vultures were singing, “We never met an animal we didn’t like.” The couple stared at the screen very seriously before beginning to laugh, and they didn’t stop for 5 whole minutes. Laxmi started playing the McDonald’s What’s-A-Fruit-Buzz game. “What’s a fruit buzz?” she asked piquantly. “It makes me feel better than knowing my ex boyfriend is still single! It’s that feeling you get when everything’s 60% off!” Chess retorted: “What’s a fruit buzz? It’s like snorting coke off a choirboy’s cock! It’s like doing meth and coming on a fat chick’s tits in Bakersfield while her army brats watch cartoons in the same room—and her husband’s getting triple-amputated in Tikrit! It’s like puking in Maya Angelou’s mouth! It’s like having diarrhea during sex—”
“With Maya Angelou?”
“—but you keep on truckin!”
They howled and did bong hits and ate Trader Joe’s chicken dumplings and watched more of The Jungle Book.
Then Chess had an epiphany.
He went to the bedroom and called Remar DeConcini.
“Remar! It’s Chess Herlihy.”
“Hullo, Chester!”
“Listen. Um, I know you’re not going to like this—but I think I want to settle out.”
“Whoa! You’re right. I don’t like it. What’s goin on, bro?”
“I don’t know. I guess, it’s just—I’ve seen what lawsuits do to people, man.”
“So have I, bro! I’ve seen lawsuits make people extremely rich. Dude, what have y’all been smoking?” Remar sounded a little fruit-buzzed himself. “Are y’all up in the trees?”
“Listen. Lawsuits create…shitty karma. I mean, I’m starting to feel like it’s controlling me, not like I’m controlling it.”
“And here I was thinking your life was being controlled by the pain you’ve suffered because of your injuries. You’ve got to chill, Chester. This is the pain talking. Sometimes it’s your worst enemy.”
“I just don’t know if I want to spend the next 3 years of my life on hold.”
“1st of all, Chess, it’s not gonna be 3 years. OK? There’s just no way it’s going to go on that long. No way. 2nd of all, your life does not have to be on hold. Because that way, they win. Understand what I’m saying, Chess? You go on with your life. Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart—remember the song? You’ll never walk alone? Well you better fucking believe you won’t be walking alone, you’re gonna be walking along, with a satchel full of cash! 3rdly, this is a perfect jury case, we’ve talked about that. There is simply no way you are not going be awarded with something in the 6 figures. Maybe 7. I’m thinking 7. And 4thly, you don’t need to be making a decision like this right now, aw-ite? Look. I know it can feel like this, like you’re in some twilight zone. And that’s normal. Everyone who was ever involved in a case, in my experience, no matter the merit, gets a bug up their ass and says, ‘I’m outta here.’ The higher the stakes, the more fucked up people get. Cause there’s a part of everyone who can see the armored truck coming with them sacks filled with cash and we get all, ‘I’m not worthy!’ So I totally get where you’re coming from. But what you don’t want to do is throw the baby out with the bathwater—my fear, Chester Herlihy, and I’ve been doing this a long-ass time so you gotta hear me, my fear is, if we move to settle, the bad guys are gonna smell that bathwater desperation and they’ll either stonewall us—now, they won’t succeed, but they’ll try, and they’ll eat up that precious time you were talking about—or lowball us. Stonewall or lowball. And believe me, that’s the game they like to play. And you deserve more than that.”
Chester sighed, thinking things over.
“You still with me?” laughed Remar. “Still on the line?”
“Yeah. And I hear you, Remar, I really do. And I appreciate it. But I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I’m pretty sure it’s the way I want to go.”
“This isn’t about the girl, is it? Or anyone else? Have you been discussing the case with anyone, Chester?”
“No, man. It’s just about me.”
“Because that’s like poison. People’s opinions are like assholes, OK? You heard that one. But right now, I’m the only asshole you should be listening to.”
“I haven’t been talking to anyone.”
“Can we discuss this tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“OK, cool. Now get back up in the trees.”
Remar laughed again. Chess could hear music and the low sound of voices. A faraway laugh.
“But I really think I want to end this thing.”
“Listen. You’re not a young guy. You’re not old, my friend, but you’re not young. This is your life we’re talking about, your security. We’re talkin about you never having to work again, OK? Remember that? A little thing called getting up every day and working for a living? Well, that’s a pretty big deal. People usually don’t get this kind of opportunity handed to them on a silver tray. Aw-ite? They offered $50,000. A fuckin insult! But we try to settle out now, and I’m not so sure we’re gonna get much more. And my friend, that would be tragic. Aw-ite? And remember, my fee is a 3rd. The doctors will have to be reimbursed. Even if you were covered, the health insurance folks would want to be made whole. So you’re cutting your nose to spite your face and why you’d want to cut your nose to spite your face at this point when everything is comin up roses and you’re about be crowned Miss Fucking America, I don’t know. Miss West Hollywood. Aw-ite? So think about it. This is your life, Chester Herlihy, not mine. I happen to have a very nice one and this particular case ain’t gonna rock my world one way or another. At the end of day, and the night, it’s your life. So think about it in those terms. Do you want to cash a check that may very well be negligible? Just to line your pockets with a little bit of green? Now when I say ‘little bit’ I mean little bit! Hell, what we’re talking about isn’t even enough for pockets, we’re talkin pock-ette! So do you want to line your pock-ette? Or do you want to play in the major leagues? Here’s another thing, Mr Herlihy: what if maybe next month, or next year, or 5 years down the line—what if you need some medical work to improve your quality of life? What if this thing—which is causing you a fair amount of pain, from what all you’ve told me, and has you rattlin those Vicodin bottles like a voodoo doctor—what if this thing, which don’t seem to be gettin any better, unless there’s something you’re not telling me—what if this thing comes back and bites you on the ass, hard, and you need surgery? So far (correct me if I’m wrong) so far I haven’t heard the doctors saying, ‘Oh, you’ll be fine! Thing’s going to heal itself.’ You know, nerve damage can be funny, Chess. Aw-ite? And I don’t mean
‘joke’ funny. Hard to test for. It’s important to have the resources to do something about it if it flares. So I want you to carefully consider. Or reconsider. I don’t want you left holding the bag. Because more than not, the bag will have shit in it.”
“I hear you, Remar.”
“I hope you do. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
“OK,” said the coldfooted plaintiff, worn out. (That’s why he was a good attorney.) But Chess knew he’d made the right decision. It was the only decision possible.
“Over and out.”
“One more thing,” said Chester. “What about taxes? Will they come out of the settlement?”
The voices and music at Remar’s grew louder.
“Not really—we’re not talking about much income lost here. As you know. There may be. But nothing substantial. That’s something I’ll have to get into.”
Before hanging up, the lawyer tried one more tack.
“Chess, if you need money, I told you. Let me advance you some. Just don’t be a fool.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Are you sure? Because the firm can help—it wouldn’t be the 1st time. But before we do, you’d have to make an agreement to go all the way with this. We are not a lending institution. We consider you to be an investment. A rock-solid one. We consider you an asset. And I just wish you’d start thinking of yourself that way. Stead o’ goin all hangdog on me. I’m lookin at you as a Wal-Mart superstore, and you’re over there thinking you’re a K-town mini-mart.”
“Thanks, Remar. Thanks. I’m cool.”
“I know that to be true.”
“And I’m sure this is how I want to go.”
There was a longish pause, then a sigh, almost of disgust.
“It’s just such an about-face, man. I mean, I thought we were on the same team. But now it’s like you’ve crossed over to the other side. You’ve crossed over!”
The last was followed by a deep, syrupy laugh, à la Al Green preaching gospel. His tone became jocular.
“Don’t go to the dark side, Chess! Come to the light, baby, come to the light!”
LXIV.
Marjorie
SHE bought a lottery ticket at Riki’s then drove to Wells.
She had an appointment with Agent Marone and the lady. The lady called to remind her, and said she had spoken to Joanie. Marj already knew that, and thanked her.
When she got to the bank, there was a double door installed—something new. She came in from the street and it shut behind her but when she tried the 2nd door, it wouldn’t open. A disembodied voice boomed that Marj needed to hold up her purse. She was confused and the voice repeated its command. Once she held up the purse, they buzzed her in. Well, that was the silliest thing. Did they think she was going to rob the bank? “I’m not Ma Barker,” she muttered.
She found a chair by the closest desk and sat down to wait, as she’d been told. She was there almost 20 minutes but no one approached. The old woman began to think the arrest might have already happened, or that maybe she’d gotten the time wrong. It was beyond belief but she’d left her cellphone at home again. The muleheaded stupidity of it made her groan. She waited another 10 minutes before getting in line to check on her money. It was habit, a way to kill time.
The teller, some sort of Persian who Marj could barely see behind the thick, smudged security glass, told her the balance had been “zeroed out.”
“But what is the balance?” asked Marj.
The Persian said there was “none,” adding, “You have closed the account.”
There was a time delay because of an inferior sound system. The voice of the teller dipped in and out.
Marj reached in her bag and got the business card from the lady. She read the name to the teller, saying she wanted to speak with “Cynthia Mulcahy, Vice President, Customer Relations.” She slipped the card under the glass for the imbecile to examine. Marj said she had an important appointment with Miss Mulcahy and a gentleman from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The Persian called someone over, a prim-looking African-American. The black began to speak but her voice was low and kept fritzing out as well. She studied the card and asked Marj which branch the lady she wished to see worked out of. This is the silliest thing! Can’t you read? This is not Ebonics, Miss! This is Wells Fargo, not McDonald’s. Just please read the card! The woman on the card is your boss!
The black told Marj to wait. Then the teller asked if she’d step aside but the old woman couldn’t hear and the request was repeated that she step out of line because there were customers waiting.
The black came out a few minutes later with a tall, thin man. (It was a relief to see people without that horrid glass barrier.) He asked Marj to sit at his desk. The black earnestly hovered a moment before she was called away. The thin man adjusted his glasses and told Marj that he was afraid there was no one by that name who worked at Wells Fargo Bank. She said she didn’t understand, the business card said the lady was Vice President of Pico-Robertson, she had even been to Marj’s home for coffee. The thin man kept staring at Miss Mulcahy’s card, with an ever-so-slight nod of the head. Then he got the old woman’s Social and punched it in his computer, calling up her accounts. Without looking at her, he asked Marj how long she had banked there, and she became furious because that was something they should know, they should know their business, she was a loyal longtime customer, she had just given him her Social Security number and he had her driver’s license sitting right there too, and anyway, he was punching everything in and she couldn’t understand why she had to be asked questions whose answers were probably staring him in the face from the screen. To show her impatience, Marj said, “Well, that’s moot.” (A remark she would have told Hamilton about when he got home from work—how during the day she’d had the gumption to tell some bureaucratic fool, “That’s moot.”) The thin man said their records showed she had closed out her money market and personal checking accounts that very morning. She said that was impossible, or if it was true, it surely had been done in the course of an investigation, because she was in the midst of helping the FBI—she was helping an agent, Agent—suddenly she became flustered, and couldn’t remember his name. The thin man told her she might be the victim of fraud and Marj got a little irate and said of course she was the victim of a fraud, she already knew that, and so did the bank, Miss Whatshername, and so did the FBI and Agent So-and-So. I cannot remember his name. The man who looks like Jeff Chandler. I was meeting both of them here.
The lady on the card spoke to my daughter—
The thin man eyed her carefully now and said he was going to call the police. Marj said she wasn’t sure that was a good idea, because the agent—Agent Marone (she had finally gotten the brilliant idea of digging his card from her purse, which she handed over to the fastidious bureaucrat, who scrutinized it closely. What an ass he was!)—Agent Marone said they were quite near an arrest, and if the thin man were to call the police it might jeopardize the work done up till now. I am to be a critical eyewitness, and the ringleader, AKA Mr Weyerhauser, is supposed to be taken into custody at this very branch, Pico-Robertson, and that is an action he should be extremely wary of jeopardizing. The thin man told her the business card of the lady appeared to be “falsified.” He dialed the number of Agent Ruddy Marone and hung up, telling the old woman it had been disconnected. Marj asked him to try again, which he did, but it was still disconnected.
He said he was going to phone the police right away because of the “high numbers” involved, that he felt Marj and the bank may have been defrauded and it was probably a good idea for her to wait at his desk until certain matters could be further clarified. She looked pale and he waved at someone to bring a cup of water. He said she could go home if she wished, that she didn’t live so far away, according to their records—well, at least they had some records!—and he would call just as soon as he heard anything. The black brought the water and the parched old trembling woman raised it to her mouth. Marj shouted, “Of course you h
ave been defrauded!” and mentioned that the lady from Wells had deposited a hundred thousand dollars back into her account, the amount covered by federal insurance, and why didn’t that show up on his stupid screen? She tearfully apologized for her outburst, then demanded to know why the accounts had been “zeroed out,” to use the teller’s term. The black trundled off, and instead of answering, the thin man merely confirmed all of Mrs Herlihy’s personal information, by rote—they even had her cellphone number on file—and Marjorie told him yes she would wait, but then he got called away, apparently to deal with a customer complaint, that’s all they seemed to have around here, and she heard the black start to laugh, and Marj thought, She’d better not be laughing about me. Because there is nothing funny about this or the way it is being handled. People can be sued for their behavior and that woman should know it, but the laughter was grating nonetheless, distant, over by the vault, she was having a mighty laugh with the Persian, Marj didn’t think it was at her expense anymore, probably just sharing a dumb joke, the 2 tittering away like the old woman’s problems had ceased to exist or were something that wouldn’t stop the world for one iota of a single second. Marj had the very same feeling when Hamilton was hooked up in the CCU and she heard nurses laughing somewhere while the life drained out of him. She grew lightheaded and decided to go home without even making the effort to announce her intentions.