Practice to Deceive

by David Housewright

  “What I’m trying to say is, you and I are a lot alike—professionally, I mean. We both enjoy what we do, we both care about what we do. The only difference is that the practice of law is more lucrative than my chosen profession, at least for those who do it well. I’m happy doing what I do. I wouldn’t be happy doing what you do. Money doesn’t enter into it. I’m saying this badly, I know,” I said.

  “No, you’re not,” Cynthia told me.

  “I don’t care about the money; I never have,” I added. “You know how I live. I drive a 1979 Monza, for God’s sake. It’s not the money, it’s the caring that matters to me. If you became just an empty suit chasing bucks, that would make a difference. Getting rich? Who cares? Well, I care; I’m really happy for you. It’s great. It’s just that …” I paused. “If the money doesn’t change you, it won’t change us. OK?”

  “OK,” she said. She seemed relieved. “Anyway, what I said last night about being filthy, stinking rich isn’t exactly true, what with taxes.…”

  “And bonuses,” I volunteered.

  “Yeah, and bonuses. I’m not so much rich as I am really, really, really well off.”

  “So instead of being stinking rich, you’re merely smelly rich.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Not going to retire?”

  “Not until I can afford to support myself in a style to which I intend to become accustomed.”

  “That brings me to why I’m here. I’d like to talk to you about a client.”

  Cynthia came around the desk, knelt next to my chair, took my hand, and kissed my index finger. “Let’s talk later.”

  “This is important,” I told her.

  “Later,” she repeated, standing and pulling my hand. “I want to go to bed with you. We’re ten minutes away from my house. Let’s go.”

  “Can we eat first? I’m starving. All I’ve had today is peanuts on the plane.”

  Cynthia was shocked. “If I live a thousand years I’ll never understand men,” she told me.

  “Fast food. It’ll only take a minute.…”

  CYNTHIA SAT CROSSED-LEGGED on her bed, using a spoon to shovel Kung Pao chicken into her mouth from a white cardboard container, marking her pleasure with a series of “hmm’s” and “ahh’s.”

  “I love this stuff,” she said. “When I was dancing in Minneapolis, there was this Vietnamese joint across the street. Every day I’d go for a helping. I couldn’t get enough of it. It was better than mace, too. Whenever the patrons got a little too close, put their grubby paws on me, I’d give ’em one of these.…” She opened her mouth and exhaled sharply. “As long as the guy didn’t have a sinus condition, I had no problems.”

  Cynthia was wearing my Christmas present to her, a silver silk nightgown trimmed with white lace that I’d bought out of the Victoria’s Secret catalog. She looked as delicious in it as the model, making me want to shout, “My girl! This is my girl!” But I was afraid she would disapprove.

  “Now, aren’t you glad you waited to eat?” she asked.

  “Man does not live by bread alone,” I answered from the love seat where I lounged, propped up against a few pillows, eating sweet-and-sour beef from an identical container. I was wearing the same clothes I’d put on that morning in Florida, having been sent into the cold, dark night in search of take-out after Cynthia had had her way with me.

  Between bites, Cynthia said, “So, tell me about this client of yours.”

  I did, leaving nothing out, even describing Mrs. Gustafson’s ancient hands.

  ‘“By hook or by crook’?” she asked. “Your father isn’t encouraging you to commit a criminal act, is he?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? This is the same man who took a belt to me for stealing a stick of Chum Gum from the corner store when I was a kid, then made me go back to the store and apologize.”

  “What does he expect you to do? Shove a gun into Field’s ribs and make him an offer he can’t refuse?”

  “That’s almost exactly what I asked him.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Didn’t say anything, just shrugged.”

  “Shrugged?”

  ‘“What’s that mean?’ I asked him.”

  “And?”

  “He shrugged again.”

  “Eloquent man.”

  I took another bite of the sweet-and-sour, speaking through it. “My Dad is interested in results. ‘Give me solutions, not problems,’ he tells his employees. He’s not much interested in how I go about it, just as long as I get the job done.”

  “I know what I’d suggest if he wasn’t your father.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell him to go to hell.”

  “I almost did.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “When I was in high school, I convinced him to send me on a senior class trip, a six-day cruise to the Bahamas. Only it wasn’t a class trip, it was just a bunch of us who decided it’d be fun to get out of the country during spring break.”

  “He ever learn the truth?”

  “He knew the truth before we left.”

  “And he let you go, anyway?”

  “He admired my audacity,” I said. “He said I reminded him of himself.”

  “Really? If I’d tried to pull something like that, my grandfather would have whipped out that belt you mentioned.” She stopped eating for a moment and stared wistfully at some invisible spot above my head.

  Cynthia had never met her father, and her alcoholic mother abandoned her when she was just six. Six years later, Cynthia’s grandparents did the same, dying within a few months of each other. Cynthia became a ward of the state, a number on a piece of paper that was often mislaid. She wandered aimlessly, unloved and unloving, between halfway houses, foster homes, and the street. Drugs and alcohol were her only friends, and to keep them—although she never admitted to it, and I never asked—I suspect she hooked. Finally, she quit on herself and swallowed a bottle of furniture polish. But she did not die. To her surprise and disappointment, she woke in a county hospital, her arms in restraints, not an angel in sight. Since she didn’t have insurance, the hospital quit on her, too, placing her in a security ward with a few dozen major-league crazies. And there, profoundly lost, amid chaos and catastrophic emotional and mental suffering that most of us couldn’t possibly imagine, she found sanity.

  She was “scared straight,” if you will; certainly she started thinking straight for the first time in years. She devised a plan, one she has lived by to this very day. It was really quite simple. Since she so thoroughly detested Cyndi Grey—that’s how she spelled her name, dotting the “i” with a heart—she would replace her with someone more to her liking. She would reinvent herself, starting with her name: Cynthia Grey, don’t even think of calling her Cyndi.

  Cynthia couldn’t wait to get out of the hospital; she attempted several daring if not well-thought out escapes that, of course, only put her back in restraints. But once she convinced the staff that she was no longer trying to leave, they were happy to release her. Immediately, Cynthia set about earning her high school general equivalency diploma, at the same time taking the twelve-step cure. Then she entered a three-plus-three program at the University of Minnesota—three years of college, three years of law school—finishing tenth in her class. To pay for her education, she danced on tabletops for twenty bucks a pop at a strip joint in downtown Minneapolis under the name Alette, which Cynthia understood to mean “take wing.”

  CYNTHIA TOOK ANOTHER bite of her chicken and then announced, “If I ever have children, I’m sending them on a cruise to the Bahamas when they graduate from high school.”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  “So,” she said, waving her spoon at me, “how are you going to help your father help Mrs. Gustafson?”

  “I was hoping you’d have a suggestion.”

  “Litigation is expensive and time consuming,” she reminded me, picking at her meal with the spoon, searching for more chicken.

 
“So I’ve been told.”

  “Perhaps we can avoid it. That is, if you want my help.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Tomorrow morning I’ll give this Levering Field a call and arrange a face-to-face.…”

  “‘Face-to-face’? Is that lawyer talk?”

  Cynthia frowned at me and continued, “Just because something’s unethical doesn’t make it illegal, so I don’t think invoking the attorney general will frighten him. And he’s not subject to the same rules of conduct as a stockbroker, so we can’t bring our case before an arbitrator. But, we can always threaten him with an investor fraud suit, see if he wants to be reasonable.”

  “Think he will?”

  “A man in his position, the last thing he wants is a civil suit. Word gets out, it could kill his business—especially if he’s sued by a high-profile attorney with access to the media.”

  “Like you?”

  “Kinda makes you want to treat me with more respect, doesn’t it?”

  I set the remains of my meal on a table and moved slowly toward the bed. Cynthia set her chicken aside when she saw me coming.

  “Respect, admiration, affection, desire …” I said.

  “Love?”

  “There’s that word again.” Our faces were inches apart.

  “Funny how it keeps popping up in conversation.”

  “I worship the ground you walk on,” I told her.

  “That’ll do,” she said, kissing me ever so gently. “For now.”

  THREE

  LEVERING FIELD SPOKE in the oily manner of a man who sold things he’s never seen. He appeared to us in the lobby of his Minneapolis office like he had just stepped out of his own brochure—the one on the table in the reception area that pictured him explaining retirement plans to a small group of transfixed seniors. His face was tanned and handsome with a thin mustache that was meant to convey maturity and trustworthiness; his smile had a practiced quality.

  Counting the watch and rings, I estimated that the ensemble he wore cost more than my car had new—hell, his suit alone was probably worth a couple of house payments, and this wasn’t even a big day for him. He probably wore five hundred dollar sports jackets when he cleaned the garage.

  He took Cynthia’s hand in both of his and gushed how pleased he was to meet her and how much he admired her. Then he took my hand; his grip was firm but not too firm. “Holland Taylor, the famed private eye,” he said. “Welcome.”

  OK, maybe Cynthia was famous, at least for a few days. But me? Not a chance. He must have checked me out after Cynthia had called last week.

  I gave him a hard look. While I examined him, he examined me, moving practiced eyes over my Kuppenheimer sports jacket, faded jeans, and white Nikes. His lips formed a slight, almost imperceptible grin, as if he had calculated my entire net worth, right down to the two quarters and a nickel in my pants pocket, and was unimpressed. His grin broadened into a full-fledged smile when he appraised Cynthia. But then, she looked like the GNP of Argentina.

  “We can conduct our business in my office,” he said, leading the way. “My own attorney should be here directly.”

  “Fine,” Cynthia said, all business.

  “Miss Portia,” Field said, speaking to his secretary, “when my attorney arrives, send her straight in; otherwise, no interruptions, please.”

  “Of course,” Miss Portia said without looking up. A young woman, she had an unhealthy pallor—she looked as though she had taken a bath in whitewash. Her long, golden hair was rolled up like a wave above her forehead. She wore no lipstick, no rouge, no mascara, no makeup whatsoever. She might have been pretty if she worked at it; all the natural resources were there: attractive blond hair, neat smile, and bright if not warm eyes. As it was, she looked incomplete.

  “You should buy that young lady a sunlamp,” I told Field behind his closed office door. “She looks like a ghost.”

  “Yeah, but the bitch is an animal in bed,” he said and laughed. The laugh died quickly when his brain caught up with his mouth, and he realized Cynthia was listening to every word.

  Field ushered us deeper into his huge office. It was very carefully organized to reflect both success and power. The carpet was deep; you could not hear the sound of your own footsteps. The furniture was dark and highly polished. Three walls were filled with works of French Impressionists—Edgar Degas, Georges Seurat, Cézanne, Monet. The frames were painted with gold leaf, and small lamps arched away from the wall, lighting each painting, giving the impression that these reproductions were as valuable as the originals. The fourth wall consisted entirely of glass and had a southern exposure and maximum sunlight. Positioned in front of the glass was Field’s desk. Only slightly larger and the Seventh Fleet could have used it for an aircraft carrier. On top of the desk was a computer terminal, phone, notepad, pencil, and a photograph of an attractive young woman of maybe sixteen. Strategically placed before the desk were two chairs, the legs of both had been sawed off so that anyone sitting in them would be looking up at Field and into the sun. He beckoned us to sit.

  Expressionlessly, Cynthia tapped the arm of one of the chairs. “I prefer to sit there,” she said, motioning with her head at the glass coffee table in the corner. The two sides of the table facing the office were open; the two sides facing the wall were bordered by low-slung leather sofas.

  “As you wish,” Field said, bowing his head slightly, fighting a frown. He moved to the table, indicating that Cynthia take a seat on one of the sofas. Instead, she turned one of the chairs around and moved it to the table, sitting there. She was now perched several inches above Field, who had to look up at her. Point to Cynthia.

  “May I offer you anything? Coffee? Spring water?” Field was smiling again when he made the offer, but it had a forced quality and I found myself humming a lyric from a golden oldie by Undisputed Truth: “A smile is just a frown turned upside down.”

  Cynthia made a production out of reading her wrist-watch. It was 9:03 in the morning. She sighed deeply, like she had been waiting for hours and said, “Thank you, no.” I shook my head no. Cynthia had made me promise to let her do all the talking.

  At that moment the door opened, and a woman hurried into the room. She had black hair trimmed to her shoulders and dark eyes. She wore a black mandarin-collared jacket tailored to emphasize her small waist and a black skirt long enough to be considered professional yet short enough to show off her legs. She was a handsome woman, and just looking at her made me smile. I guessed her age at about thirty-five.

  “Sorry, I’m late Mr. Field. Traffic,” she said in a firm voice. “Mr. Taylor, a pleasure to meet you,” she told me, taking my hand, not waiting for introductions. But she wasn’t paying attention to me. Her eyes were on Cynthia, and she didn’t take long to get to her.

  “Cynthia,” she said simply.

  “Monica,” Cynthia replied.

  They shook hands and their eyes locked, like samurai warriors about to strike. Cynthia also had dark hair and eyes, a small waist, and killer legs. But she wore white to Monica’s black—an ivory, double-breasted blazer over a matching camisole and a pleated skirt that brushed her knee. The two of them together, shaking hands, was like a scene out of an Akira Kurosawa movie—Ran or The Seven Samurai, maybe. You just knew blood was going to flow.

  “Congratulations on your settlement,” Monica said.

  “Thank you,” Cynthia said. “And congratulations to you. I hear you started your own firm.”

  “Just following in your footsteps,” said Monica.

  “As always,” was Cynthia’s reply.

  Oh, man. This is going to be fun, I told myself.

  “Let’s get to it, shall we?” Monica said, turning her back on Cynthia and finding a place to sit next to Field. “You are accusing my client of a breach of fiduciary responsibility.”

  “That is a somewhat premature characterization,” Cynthia said. “At the present time we are not accusing your client of anything.”

  “Then I tak
e it this is just a social call.”

  “I prefer to consider it a reconnaissance in force.”

  “You always were partial to military metaphors.”

  “As opposed to the language of appeasement.”

  Monica absorbed the blow without faltering. “I ask you, then, to please state your intentions as clearly as possible in whatever tongue you’re using these days. We can wait if you first want to hire a PR firm.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Cynthia countered. “There is no one here I need to impress.”

  I admit I was enjoying the spectacle of these two women slugging it out, and I was speculating on how long it would take before they started tearing clothes and wrestling in mud. But Levering Field’s attention span seemed considerably shorter than mine. After consulting his watch several times he announced, “Shit, ladies. Let’s cut to the chase, huh? I have things to do.”

  “Let’s,” echoed Monica—I had yet to learn her last name. Before she could continue, however, Field did what Cynthia made me promise not to: He spoke for his attorney.

  “Mrs. Gustafson. I’m sorry for her losses, but that’s the way it goes, OK? No use crying crocodile tears over it.”

  “Mr. Field …” Monica interrupted.

  “Hey, if I wait on you two, I’ll be here until fucking Christmas,” he said, then quickly added, “Forgive my French. Look, Cynthia—may I call you Cynthia?—investments sometimes go south, OK? If it was easy, if there was no risk, everyone would do it and everyone would be rich. Mrs. Gustafson knew what she was getting into—”

  “She claims she didn’t.”

  “I have a piece of paper with her signature that says she did.”

  Monica tried to interrupt again. “Mr. Field, would you please …”

  Field ignored her. “Now, I keep excellent records. My records go beyond what is required. If you look carefully—and a court will, am I right?—if you look carefully, you’ll see I dealt fairly with her. I never misled her. She always knew what I was doing. You cannot build a long-term relationship on misinformation, and we were together—it’s gotta be like ten years, OK?”