Lucky Leonardo

by Jonathan D. Canter

  “Call me if there’s anything I can do to help,” Mulverne said to the son, although he didn’t have anything helpful in mind, and didn’t expect a call.

  And of course Selma the histrionic secretary.

  She was out of control, feeling responsible for her boss’ current condition, which is that he was not her boss any more, and was lying laterally in a wooden container at the bottom of a hole.

  It was horrible. Beyond any nightmare she could imagine. “Bill, come back,” she screamed in a very loud voice, but not loud enough to rouse him. “Bill, please come back,” she screamed again with all her might, on her hands and knees at the lip of the hole, tears streaming down her face and her body shaking, but still not loud enough. Still not loud enough unless it was loud enough and he heard her but was trapped inside and was clawing at the roof of his coffin and couldn’t get out.

  “Open the coffin,” Selma screamed like a revelation was upon her. “Open the coffin. He’s alive. He wants to get out.”

  The widow was unhinged by Selma’s outburst, and collapsed backwards into the lap of her son, like in a reverse pietà, as the mourners rushed to her side, and hovered and murmured and wrung their hands. In the background one gravedigger jumped into the hole, and put his ear to the top of the coffin to listen for signs of life, while the other gravedigger stood his ground and smirked.

  “She’s the one,” Janet said, pointing at Selma, as Selma kneeled bereft and unattended, like a bride abandoned by the wedding party, more and more of her tilting over the edge and into the hole, moving Janet and Mulverne to sidle to her, and try to comfort her, and move her away, while the widow drew the murmurings and attention of the rest of the crowd. They raised Selma to her feet and started her walking. She was weak but they kept her in motion down the path to the parking lot, and didn’t look back. Like Good Samaritans escorting Eve from the Garden of Eden.

  “Are you here with someone?” Mulverne asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you have a car?”

  She shook her head.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Cab.”

  “Brockleman got you into a big mess?”

  “Wha…Yes, he did.”

  “Would you like a ride?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to drive?”

  Chapter 36

  In this day of cameras in the courtroom, on the catcher’s mask, at the scene of the crime, around the far side of the moon, and way up your urinary tract, we expect visual coverage and are nervous and unhappy without it. When Leonardo got home from his deposition with birdies still chirping in his head, too late to attend Brockleman’s funeral even if he had his car back and felt invited, he wanted to turn on his television, kick back on his couch, and catch the highlights.

  The lowering of the casket. The widow’s grief. The crowd’s reaction. With commentary, file footage, intrusive close-ups, and tips on how to dress for a winter funeral. The works. But Brockleman was, among other things, no Kennedy. His burial didn’t make network, cable, pay per view, wherever. Leonardo, seeking closure, settled for the hundred best sex rock videos on MTV.

  “Poor Brockleman,” Leonardo sighed, meaning poor each and every one of us, members of the family of mortals, next time we should be born into a better family. Amen.

  ———

  Marge Blitz, on the other hand, had the video. She poured herself a fist of scotch and sat back with her assistant Kurt Knight, who recorded from the high ground a safe distance away, and watched it all unravel. Kurt said it reminded him of the wedding scene at the beginning of Godfather, when G-men snapped photos of guests from the perimeter of the compound.

  “James Caan?” Marge asked Kurt.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Me too.”

  They observed the mourners congregated around the coffin. They recognized Selma despite her veil of tears, and the late-arriving Mulverne and Casey duo. The audio was useless on account of the distance, so it was impossible to hear the clergyman’s remarks, or to discern the role faith played in them. “What’s his affiliation?” Marge asked.

  “Dunno,” answered Kurt. “He looked pretty generic.”

  “What do you think about religion?” Marge asked, draining and re-filling her glass with the fluidity of a problem drinker.

  “It seems to comfort people,” Kurt answered. “It doesn’t do much for me.”

  “Me either,” said Marge. “Although I think morality matters. God knows I do my best to lead a moral life, to be honest, and charitable, and respect the feelings of others. But to me that’s a lot different from believing in miracles and resurrection and things like that…”

  “Amen.”

  “To me, dead is dead. Like as pissed off as Brockleman was at me I don’t think he’ll be taking any appeals to higher authorities on the other side…”

  “I agree.”

  “…or enforcing any of his curses…”

  “Marge,” Kurt said as the on-screen clergyman closed his book and signaled for the casket to begin its final descent, “I’m quite certain we’re seeing the last of Brockleman.”

  Marge raised her glass to this prospect. “May he rest in peace,” she said, “and not become an angry ghost.”

  “I’m also quite certain,” Kurt continued, “that if he had lived he would have confessed, and begged you for mercy.”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Marge said, “and I deeply appreciate it…Because I’m scared to death of angry ghosts.” She reached over and held his hand. A waft of liquored breath and florid perfume hit him on the head.

  “You deserve some love,” Kurt said, his face reddening.

  The casket dropped slowly, like a knuckle curve. A batter could swing three times and eat a ham sandwich before it reached the plate. Kurt got impatient and redder. He fast-forwarded with his free hand to the scene where Selma crouched down on all fours at the lip of the open grave. Given the camera angle and the spread of her tush, it set up like a booty shot.

  “I can see her underpants,” Marge commented, her spirits rising the deeper Brockleman dropped into his hole. “Not bad for government work, Kurt, you little devil.”

  “Thank you,” he said, blushing like a rose.

  ———

  Cut back to Leonardo, alone on his couch with his MTV, not looped into Selma’s dramatic roles in Kurt’s graveside video or in Brockleman’s heart-stopping finale, deciding to call her because she was helpful and friendly to him when he was a Brockleman business associate. She might explain what happened. He couldn’t think of anyone else he knew who could or would, and he itched to know.

  “She no longer works here,” the law firm receptionist coolly advised, “but I am authorized to give out the following telephone number…”

  Leonardo dialed the number.

  “Hello?” Selma said. She just that minute was dropped off by Janet and Mulverne, and was still a wreck.

  “Selma?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “This is Leonardo Cook. You may remember me from when I did some work with Attorney Brockleman…”

  “The shrink?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I was wondering if you could tell me how Attorney Brockleman died. He always seemed…”

  “What?”

  “I was wondering if you could tell me how he d…”

  “Fuck you,” Selma said, and hung up.

  “Hmm,” Leonardo said. When his phone rang a second later, he picked up and said “Selma?” on the assumption she had pressed her call-back button and wanted to apologize for her rudeness, but it was Barbara.

  “Lenny,” Barbara said, “I had to change some things around.”

  “What?”

  “Harvey’s school.”

/>   “What?”

  “I’ve sent him to boarding school.”

  “What? You can’t do that.”

  “I had to. It was an emergency. I had to get him away from the bad influences.”

  “What bad influences?”

  “Your niece Joan.”

  “But Joan’s just a…”

  “And you.”

  Chapter 37

  Harriford Academy had a web page, from which Leonardo learned that the school was old and located in the backwoods of Maine, about three hours away by fast car. “…We offer our students an opportunity to grow and mature in a supportive, healthy, vigilant community…”

  “We’re not talking St. Paul’s here,” a friend who knew things said. “Harriford specializes in kids from broken homes, kids with drugs and alcohol, kids who don’t give a shit. Problem kids with rich parents. They do tough love…” Leonardo felt old and ill and stupid, like Barbara was doing it to him again, like he was losing his son, like this was the straw to push the camel over the edge.

  He called Abigail, and left a message. He called Dr. Ziggamon, and left a message. He called Barbara back and left a screaming message. He called Harriford Academy and left messages all over their voice mail system.

  He called Mark Seltz, his divorce attorney. “He’s gone for the day,” the answering service said. Leonardo tried him at home. Mark answered. The first thing he said to Leonardo was, “Who gave you my home number?”

  “You did.”

  “Don’t use it again. Also, I don’t represent you now.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t say more. Sorry. Good-bye.”

  ———

  It was just as well that Mark didn’t explain. Leonardo didn’t need to know within the same hour he found out Barbara had shanghaied Harvey that his ex-lawyer had held “a small position” in DeltaTek at the time Leonardo called him from the road on October 4 to ask what insider trading was, and closed his position right after he hung up, “…as part of a long-standing and coincidental divestiture plan, which in fact produced only nominal gain when viewed in the context of the volatility of the stock…” his attorney advised Marge Blitz in response to her inquiry. Like go find some real criminals, for God’s sake.

  “We should never underestimate the trickiness of an attorney,” Marge told Kurt as she stared at the Mark Seltz line on her DeltaTek scoreboard, which showed no known connection between Seltz and an insider. “But Seltz seems like a straight shooter to me. He’s no Brockleman…”

  ———

  Leonardo hung up the phone from Seltz, and walked to the window to see if anything was doing in his backyard. His phone rang again. It was Chrissie calling to say she was fine, but she might not be back until tomorrow morning.

  “How was the funeral?” she asked.

  “I didn’t make it.”

  “Were you deposed?”

  “I’m recovering from it. How’s your mother?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “How’s Roger?”

  “He’s fine. And Tom’s here.”

  “Oh. How’s Tom?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Sounds like everyone’s fine.”

  “Yes. We’re all fine.”

  “Fine. But you have to be back early tomorrow morning. I need the car…”

  “Do you miss me?”

  “Yes, I...”

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “I…What?”

  “You know my friend Helen, from Starbucks?”

  “Yes. Helen.”

  “She hasn’t been at work all week. She called in sick the first day but hasn’t called since, and I haven’t spoken to her and she’s not answering her phone, and I’m a little worried. Would you be willing to drop by her apartment and see if she’s all right?”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Or now if possible. I’m a little concerned, you know, because like she’s not the greatest friend in the world, but she is a friend and I don’t think she has many friends, and I’m up here and she’s not answering her phone…”

  “Uhh…”

  “I don’t think anything bad has happened, but you know it would be good if you could check. I don’t mean see her as a shrink. I mean just drop by like a person and see if she’s there and OK. Would you be willing to do that? I would be very appreciative.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re the best…”

  ———

  After he hung up, Leonardo spent a moment trying to figure out the sleeping arrangements at Chrissie’s mom’s house. But that, he realized, was the least of his concerns, or at least less of a concern than some of his other concerns. He called a cab.

  Helen’s apartment building was in a borderline neighborhood, not quite crappy, but with more than its per capita share of street garbage, and people who looked, felt, or were suspicious. Leonardo buzzed and waited. And buzzed again.

  Finally a voice. “Who is it.”

  “It’s Leonardo Cook. Chrissie’s fr…”

  Bzzzz. He was buzzed in mid-syllable.

  “…iend.”

  He walked up two flights. She was waiting at the door, in bathrobe, slippers, and woolen ski hat, looking pale and watery-eyed. “Dr. Lenny,” she said with more animation than her appearance predicted, “what brings you here?”

  “I heard you weren’t feeling well…”

  She ushered him in, like an urbane hostess, like she was wearing diamonds and a taffeta gown and he was king of the night, and took his parka. Her hand brushed his shoulder as she directed him to make himself comfortable on one of her plastic-covered kitchenette stools. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked. “I have delicious beans.”

  “No thank you,” he said. “Are you sick?”

  “Rundown. Tired.” She sat down on the adjacent stool. She adjusted her wool hat so it covered all of her hair. “My hair is disgusting,” she said.

  “Fever?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How’s your throat?”

  “Not bad, and yours?”

  “You’re a comedienne.”

  “A sick comedienne.”

  “Do you think you should see a doctor?”

  “Personally or professionally?”

  “Umm, for your sickness.”

  “I don’t know. Most of my things turn out to be psychosomatic. False pregnancies. Bleeding from my palms. Obsessive masturbation. Dressing like cat woman and standing under the apple tree in your backyard…”

  “You dress like cat woman?”

  “When I’m in your backyard.”

  “Last Saturday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was a cold night. Do you think you might have picked up a chill?”

  “That could be, Dr. Lenny. It was cold, and I don’t winterize the costume because I want to look sexy, when I’m under your tree.”

  “Do you still have the costume?”

  “Are you asking if I loaned it to some other cat woman?”

  “Or maybe you returned it? I don’t know if you own or rent.”

  “Dr. Lenny, I don’t think renting would do, because you want a good fit you know? And you want it handy in case you need it at an off-hour, like when the rental folks might be asleep?”

  “Could I see what it looks like?”

  Chapter 38

  “Hello,” Chrissie said to Leonardo when he picked up his phone early the next morning, Saturday morning.

  “Where are you?” Leonardo answered.

  “I’m still at my mom’s house.”

  “I told you I need the car this morning.”

  “I haven’t been able to leave yet, Leonardo. I’m sorry. Could you…could I…I’ll leave as soon as I can…”

/>   “Jesus, Chrissie…”

  “Did you see Helen?”

  “I can’t talk.”

  He hung up pissed at Chrissie and agitated about Harvey and everything else. He called car rental places, but nothing doing. He called Gerry his golf buddy, and listened to a complicated story about why the body shop was having trouble fixing the hood damage from when his wife pressed the remote control garage door button too soon. Who else? Dr. Ziggamon? The old lady from next door? If success in life is measured by the number of people I know who will loan me a car on short notice no questions asked, I fail.

  But then he caught a break. His sister Gayle said, “Yes.”

  Which she modified on a call back a minute later: “Joan says she wants to go with you, Lenny. Would that be OK?”

  “OK.”

  The available car was Gayle’s maroon minivan, which, Leonardo decided as he strapped himself in and felt like he had to drive directly to a youth soccer field, was as far from his Corvette as a four-wheeled vehicle could be. “We have to make a short stop,” he told his niece.

  “Who’s here?” she asked as Leonardo double parked in front of Helen’s apartment.

  “A friend. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Helen buzzed him up, and met him at her door. She was back in her robe, slippers and ski hat from the night before, but looking not so fragile. There was pink in her cheeks. Her costume, identifiable by its erect little ears, still lay curled in a ball on the floor. “I just wanted to check on you,” Leonardo said. “I’ll be gone for the rest of the day. I’m going up to visit my son.”

  “You’re a sweet guy, Dr. Lenny.”

  “Chrissie didn’t get back with my car.”

  “She doesn’t love you like I do.”