The Way of All Fish

by Martha Grimes

  “Oscar ain’t eaten since this morning.” Candy started tapping away at his cell phone as they walked.

  “At least nobody fed him cyanide. Why don’t you wait till we pass a Balducci’s, pal? Call your fish from there, see what he wants.”

  Candy snorted. “So funny. I’m trying Cindy again.” Long pause. He snapped the phone shut as they swaggered along, tails of Façonnable coats flapping behind them.

  10

  Cindy was out of her blue chenille bathrobe and into jeans with a tear on the knee made by Gus, not fashion; a gray cowl-neck sweater; and an old dark peacoat.

  She was also out of her apartment and into Jimmy McKinney’s office, her favorite place in Manhattan besides Ray’s coffee shop. She liked the brownstone, although it was the same as the others on the block; she liked the stone steps worn in the center to the image of a shoe; she liked the cherrywood door to his office, the thin pale Oriental rug, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and every item of furniture, including the big desk, the swivel chair he sat in (and liked to skid around), but mostly him, Jimmy McKinney.

  Jimmy was talking about this and that, but she wasn’t really listening, only looking, her head cocked to the side, trying to recall who he reminded her of.

  “I offered to shoot the bastard, but you turned me down.”

  “Who?”

  He grinned. “How many have I offered to shoot?”

  She looked around the room.

  “Is that your cell?” said Jimmy.

  The ringtone was the one that had come with the phone; it was barely audible. Jimmy was just used to listening to clients, excepting Cindy, to whom he talked more than he listened.

  The bag she had slung over the chair was nearly the size of a brown grocery bag, and she started rooting through it without enthusiasm, as she’d rather listen to Jimmy than her cell phone. Still, she had to make a show of looking, so she took out papers, notebooks, a beat-up paperback copy of The Aspern Papers, pens, a lipstick. “I can’t find it,” she said rather happily.

  “How many notebooks do you carry around?” He nodded at the stack.

  She started putting everything back. “Several.”

  “But not a laptop.”

  Cindy frowned. Why was this turning dull? “No. Why?”

  He sat back, locking his fingers behind his head. Smiled. “It’s interesting.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  He had told her about the visit from her friends Candy and Karl and got back on that subject, still unsatisfied with Cindy’s explanation. “These two—what is it they do, exactly?”

  She sighed. “How would I know? They pulled out guns in the Clownfish Café. Maybe they’re federal agents or something. They were pretty evasive.”

  The cell bleated.

  “That’s your cell again.” Jimmy nodded toward the bag Cindy had dumped on the floor.

  She pulled up the bag and went through the whole business again. The cell phone continued its silly tune, whining to be picked up. “I’ll never find it.” She sighed as if she cared.

  Jimmy was enjoying the little show. He’d enjoyed it the first time, too. He said unhelpfully, “Why do you carry a cell phone around? If you can never answer it?”

  “Usually, I don’t. It’s just when I have an appointment and maybe I’ll be late and want to notify whoever. Like you.”

  She turned eyes on him so intensely sad that he had to look away. Jimmy sometimes felt there was something about Cindy Sella that could engulf him. He thought of his wife, soon to be his ex-wife, Lilith. He could not help but think, “Not even Lilith with her famous hair.” Edwin Arlington Robinson. There was a poem to fit every occasion. It was why he loved poetry so much. It was why he wrote poetry. There was always a poem waiting just around the corner to explain a situation. “And Lilith was the devil, I have read.”

  “It stopped,” Cindy said, jamming the junk back into her bag.

  “You’ve got to unload Wally Hale. You can’t stand him, and he’s not an intellectual properties lawyer. Go to the guy I told you about, Sam Walsh. Did you even call him?” He was talking to the crown of her head. All of that pale hair was natural, apparently. There wasn’t root number one showing. He sat back. “How did you ever hook up with Hale?”

  “At a party,” she said to her lap. “I just met him. Them.” Finally, she raised her head, as if she’d skated to more solid ground. “He was with the other lawyer, Rod Reeves. They work together, they said. He looks like Richard Gere. Did you see Chicago?”

  “No. But I know a con man when I see one.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  He guessed he didn’t. “So what did you do? Hire them on the spot? After some cocktail chitchat?” It really irritated him. “And you never go to parties.” As if that were the larger problem. He just shook his head. “These guys who came to see me? Candy and Karl—”

  Cindy smiled. “Aren’t they a scream?”

  “A scream they might be, but why are they working for you?”

  “They aren’t. I mean, they just seemed really interested. I didn’t actually hire them. But I guess I didn’t discourage them, either. Look, what were we talking about? And is the tea ready?”

  This time the phone that rang was Jimmy’s landline. He picked up. “McKinney.” Stillness while he looked at her. “She’s right here, yeah.” He held the receiver toward her. “Speak of the devil. It’s your pals.”

  Puzzled, she spoke: “Hello.” She sat back, listened. “Thanks. Thank you.” She handed the receiver back to Jimmy. He dropped it in place.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That was Candy. He and Karl went to see Wally Hale but didn’t tell him the real reason for their visit.”

  “What did they tell him?”

  She frowned. “Something about a fish alliance.” Her frown deepened.

  “A what?”

  “Maybe a fin alliance?”

  “Well, that clears things up.”

  “If Wally or Rod get in touch with me, I’m to say I don’t know what they’re talking about. That won’t be hard. Karl said I should fire them tout de suite.” She smiled. “I’m going to anyway.”

  Jimmy was picking up the phone. “I’m calling the lawyer I told you to see. Sam Walsh.”

  “He’ll say I have to drop my other lawyers before he can see me, won’t he?” She was picking up her luggage-sized bag.

  Jimmy tapped in numbers. “I don’t think Sam stands upon such niceties.” He glanced up as Cindy stood, looking forlorn, her bag slung over her shoulder.

  Cindy just stood there a few moments. “What’s a nicety?”

  11

  Candy fed Oscar his soupçon of dinner, which the fish attacked like a missile.

  Karl barely looked up. “Why don’t we take him on a Carnival cruise? The fish could eat whenever he wanted.”

  Candy ignored this comment. He picked up his drink and went back to the white leather sofa to continue, with Karl, their search for justice. “Why don’t we just whack Hess and be done with it?”

  Karl had set down his own glass to fire up a Monte Cristo. “Come on, C., you know why. That bastard, he’d fall right at the feet of Cindy Sella. Who’s the person with the most motive to want him gone?” He puffed around, inhaled, let out a flat stream of smoke.

  “Listen, there’s probably a lot of people with a motive. So we make sure Cindy’s alibied.”

  “You know that won’t work. They’d say she just hired somebody to do the job.”

  “We know people; we could hire somebody for her.”

  “Candy, hel-lo—” Karl rocked his hand back and forth. “We’re the guys that people hire.”

  Candy rose and revisited the fish tank as if Oscar might have some ideas. Then he paid another visit to the cocktail shaker, very retro, very art deco. Like the table lamp beside it, where once rested the brass figure of a girl holding the moon. This had been replaced by leaping fish on a frosted circle of glass that shaded the candle bulb. Candy filled his gl
ass and reseated himself.

  Karl stopped blowing smoke rings. “Remember, we need a client.”

  “For the illegal fish trade, yeah.”

  “I’m not exactly sure why we need one, since we don’t know what the fuck we’re goin’ to do with this client.” Karl tapped off ash with his little finger into a big Murano glass ashtray.

  “Did you ever stop to think that we don’t know all that many people, K.? Or at least most of them are dead?”

  “Yeah, it’s the downside of this business. Wait, how about Danny Zito? He’s the one got us that job working for that asshole Mackenzie.”

  “Danny Zito? He’s in WITSEC, remember? But you’d never know it, the way he’s always around handing out advice.”

  “Anyway, we need someone who’s good at getting information out of people.”

  “Danny can.”

  “So could Cheney’s favorite people. I’m talking more like the PI line of work.”

  “A detective?” Candy made a face. “I dunno.” It was his turn to get up and pace. He did so by the fish tank, with Oscar swimming slowly back and forth, in what Candy decided was fish pacing. “Listen, listen to this idea: Paul Giverney. Remember?”

  “I’d have to be dead to forget. We told him, right? Told him to stop fucking up other people’s lives.”

  “So he owes Ned Isaly—”

  “What the hell’s Ned Isaly got to do with this?”

  “Nothing. I’m saying Paul Giverney owes writers, owes authors . . . you know, owes them something. So he should maybe pay that debt off to Cindy.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. That fish is gettin’ to you, C.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen. One, we gotta get this someone inside the law offices of Dickheads, Esquires. And number two”—Candy held up two fingers to make his point—“we want to get someone inside the Hess Agency.” He tapped the tank, making tiny waves that Oscar breasted and breached before dropping down to the Hotel W and hiding.

  “So what the fuck you saying?”

  “Paul Giverney.” Candy smiled broadly and fleshed out the picture a bit more.

  Karl sniggered. “I like it.”

  12

  Paul Giverney had just about decided never to write another word when the intercom buzzer made its annoying insectlike sound.

  “Who’s that?” he called out to his wife from his study/office.

  She called back: “Not being able to see through three floors below us to Clarence at the desk, I honestly don’t know.” She had begun saying this in the kitchen and finished up in the study doorway.

  The intercom buzzed again. “Are you going to answer?”

  She turned away, and her place was taken by his daughter, Hannah, who was holding another page from her book called The Hunted Gardens. In the last chapter, she had said, “the Draggonier will figure out what’s going on.” There were dragons in the garden. Hannah had come up with a Draggonier to do battle with them. But Hannah’s crinkled brow, when Paul had questioned this development, seemed to imply there was a great deal of uncertainty.

  Hannah said, “Why don’t we live in the Dakota?”

  “Why should we?” he said. He heard Molly’s voice, apparently talking to Clarence on the phone. He wished people would go away.

  “Well, this is a rent-controlled apartment, and we’re taking up what a poor person could live in.”

  She was seven. When had she developed this humane view of things?

  “Well, believe me, this apartment is not all that cheap, and we’re not all that rich.”

  “Yes, we are. My friend James at school told me you were a billionaire and we could live in the Dakota.”

  Actually, James wasn’t far off. Multimillionaire was closer. “Are you sure James didn’t say Dakota-s, plural? Meaning North and South Dakota? Maybe he said, ‘You should live in the Dakotas.’ ” Paul smiled at that bit of cleverness. Chew on that, sweetheart.

  She looked suspicious. “That would be a long way away from here, and you wouldn’t be able to see your publisher.”

  In mock joy, Paul sat up. “What a great idea! I’ll give the landlord notice tomorrow!” He drew a hand across his forehead, dramatically wiping away imaginary sweat. Then he returned to his former tone. “You mean you don’t like this apartment?”

  No reason why she should. No reason why anyone should like it or dislike it, for that matter. It was a two-largish-bedroom-plus-study with a big eat-in kitchen and a small dining room they seldom used. He himself loved it. It was so wonderfully ordinary. Molly liked it for the Dean and Deluca a short distance away. “If you want to move, I’ll look into the Dakota and also the Carlyle. That’s got a few really exclusive apartments. Neither one of those buildings is here in the East Village, they’re more Central Park, and you might have to change schools . . .” That should stop her cold.

  It didn’t. After a short think, Hannah said, “It would be closer to the zoo. That would be good.”

  At that moment, Molly appeared behind Hannah. She smiled. “Your future is here, Paulie.”

  Paulie? What the hell did that mean? “What does that—”

  She had turned away and said something to the visitor or visitors (for there seemed to be several voices). Candy and Karl appeared behind Hannah. “Hi!” “Hey, Paulie!”

  “Hello,” said Hannah. She turned away, too, but did not leave. Her head was covered with very fine pale brown hair, mostly curly. She was wearing a pale pink dress. Hannah loved dresses. Bloomie’s should have snagged her ages ago as a model for their catalogs.

  “Hey, kiddo. Wow! You are really cute from the back. Are you that pretty from the front?” said Karl.

  Hannah actually giggled. These goons had a rapport with children? Paul couldn’t believe it. Hannah wasn’t a giggler. She turned around and presented herself.

  “Hmm. Well . . .” said Candy, hand at chin, feigning concentration.

  “I’m not?” Hannah sounded quite alarmed.

  “Yeah, you are.” Karl landed a pretend punch on Candy’s shoulder. “Absolutely first-rate, four-star pretty.”

  That satisfied her. She drifted off like a petal.

  “So, Paulie!” said Candy.

  “What’s this Paulie crap, you guys? Why are you here? What have I done now?” Paul checked out their jackets for telltale bulges. Nothing, but maybe they were wearing shoulder holsters.

  “Mind if we sit?” said Karl, who then sat.

  Candy took the third chair. There were two others, in addition to Paul’s own creaky wooden desk chair.

  “Nice suits,” said Paul, noting that this would be his single foray into small talk. “I’m guessing Bruno Magli.”

  “You’d be guessing wrong. But we appreciate your attempt to be social, especially as you didn’t expect us.”

  “You got that right.” Paul leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head as if he felt all relaxed and loose. Which he didn’t. “What do you guys want?”

  “A favor.” Candy smiled and folded a stick of gum so dry in his mouth it felt splintered.

  Paul raised his eyebrows. “I hope you don’t think I owe you one.”

  Karl took out a dented silver cigarette case.

  “That’s nice,” said Paul. “Antique?”

  “No, just messed up. A couple bullets.” Karl offered the cigarettes.

  Paul shook his head. “Quit.”

  “Tough, man.”

  Candy held out his fresh pack of Doublemint.

  Paul smiled and shook his head.

  “Good choice,” said Candy. “This stuff is dry as a bone.”

  “The favor?” Paul wasn’t eager to hear it.

  “We was just thinking: You might want to help out a fellow writer.”

  “Can’t imagine why. But go on.”

  “You know Cindy Sella?”

  Paul studied the ceiling molding for a moment. “Yeah. I mean, we have the same agent: Jimmy McKinney.”

  “We know. Do you kn
ow about Cindy’s legal hassle with her ex-agent?”

  “I heard something. Who is it?”

  “L. Bass Hess. He’s trying to hold her up for a commission on the last book she published, even though she fired him two years before. He thinks she owes him money for a book he never worked on.”

  “That’s absurd.” Paul frowned. “So what do you two have to do with it?”

  “It’s just we got sucked into it by accident.”

  “So now that you’re into it, what’s up?”

  They told him: Karl, speaking of the identity mix-up; Candy, about the visit to the Spurling Building.

  Paul laughed. He could not help but like the story about the cyanide fishing. “So you want someone to ooze into the law offices of these sleazeballs by posing as a fish importer?” Paul was as fascinated as a deer caught in a Hummer’s headlights.

  “Yeah. To see what information we can get about what in the hell they’re doing playing footsie with Bass Hess.”

  “Where do I come in?”

  “You and her are both published by Mackenzie-Haack.”

  “Me and her are?”

  They both nodded.

  Karl said, “All of this hugger-mugger with the agent and the lawyers trying to take down Cindy Sella almost sounds like what you did to Ned Isaly.”

  “It does not in any way, shape, or form resemble what I did.” Paul was getting angry. “I had no intention of ruining Ned Isaly’s life.”

  “But you almost did.”

  “Correction. Bobby Mackenzie ‘almost did.’ Could I help it if Mackenzie got the bright idea of hiring you, uh, guys?” He almost said “goons” but caught himself. “You’re not going to suggest I be the fish importer?” Paul was slightly alarmed that, yes, that’s what they were going to say.

  “Nah. You’re too well known. I mean, your face is plastered on the back of all your books.”

  Paul sighed, relieved.

  “What we want is for you to take on Bass Hess as an agent.”

  The relief quickly dissipated. “Wait.” Paul shot both arms out in front of him, waving this idea away. “I have an agent. You know that. Jimmy McKinney.”

  Candy said, “Oh, he’d be good with this. I mean, obviously, you’re not firing the guy. We’re talking about something temporary.”