by Grant Mccrea
She gave them to me with a wink.
I had no idea what it meant.
3.
I WENT BACK TO MY OFFICE.
I called Dorita.
You won’t believe this, I said.
Oh, shut up, Ricky. You already said that. I’ve got a client meeting in ten minutes.
Put it off. FitzGibbon’s son’s in trouble. Something serious. Warwick wants me to handle it. Oh, and I’m being fired.
Jesus, she whispered. I’ll be right there.
In less than a minute she was at my office door.
Come in, I mumbled.
She flounced onto the couch. Lit a cigarette with her blowtorch.
You know, there’s a rule about smoking in the office, I said.
Right, she said, tapping some ashes on the carpet. So what’s this all about?
I told her about my audience with His Portliness. At the mention of probation, a moment’s shock passed across her face. She quickly brushed it off.
Did they issue you an ankle bracelet? she asked breezily.
Listen, I said, I appreciate the effort, but this is too big for a joke or two. Let me digest it for a while. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.
My, my, Ricky. You’re getting soft in your old age.
Tomorrow, I repeated, with unusual resolve.
Okay, have it your way. So, what’s this FitzGibbon thing?
I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. FitzGibbon’s son, what’s-his-name. He’s in some kind of trouble. Not a speeding ticket. Something serious. I don’t know what.
Jules. His name is Jules.
Right. But the thing is, why me? It’s not like I’m a top-flight criminal lawyer. I’m a civil litigator, for Christ’s sake. I just do the stuff on the side. Do my bit for the social fabric, all that.
My poor little paranoid bunny. Warwick just wants to keep it in the house. You get the boy off, we get more business from Daddy.
Yeah, well. That might make sense. But I can’t help thinking Warwick’s setting me up to fail. Rehabilitation. Jesus.
Well, I can’t say that’s utterly beyond the realm of possibility. But what are you going to do about it?
Do my best, darling. Just like always. Sad but true. Can’t help myself.
That’s the ticket, Ricky. Anyway, you know the old man hates his guts.
Who?
Jules. FitzGibbon can’t stand him.
I’ll ignore the fact that the ‘old man’ is in my age bracket. And I know. Or at least, so I’ve been told. But blood runs thick, darling.
If blood it is, in that shit’s veins.
Well, yes. To tell you the truth, I don’t know the guy very well. Met him at a cocktail party or two. Big red Irishman as I recall. Full of noise and spit.
That’s the one. You’re not going to have an easy time with him.
Meaning?
Meaning he’s a major-league prick. He fired a guy for having a Snickers in the elevator.
Was he just holding it, or eating it?
What?
The guy with the Snickers. Was it unwrapped? Was he eating it in the elevator?
I don’t know. What kind of question is that?
Well, if he was eating it, I could understand.
Sure, and maybe he was wearing sneakers, too.
Snickers and sneakers? Jesus.
You’re right. I’d have fired him too.
4.
FITZGIBBON’S OFFICE WAS on the thirty-third floor of the Consolidated Can building. It was vast and modern, paneled in the sort of expensive blond wood that gave me a headache. Furnished in black leather and chrome. A large twisted ropelike thing reposed on the coffee table. I took it to be a pricey piece of Modern Art.
A much-too-well-manicured young man was sitting stiffly in the left-hand visitor’s chair. His hair was expensively coiffed and lacquered. He looked like a salsa kind of guy.
FitzGibbon gave the kid a nod. The salsa guy moved to the less comfortable chair. On the way, he gave me a Look. I wasn’t sure what kind of Look it was. But it was definitely a Look.
Security, FitzGibbon said.
Ah, I said.
I wondered what it was about me that seemed dangerous.
FitzGibbon himself had a set of perfectly sculpted New Teeth. Caps, I surmised. They would not have been out of place in a glass display case. In his mouth, on the other hand, they were a bit too big. They gave him a perpetual too-large grin. Which actually wasn’t too bad an effect. Something about him, I’d heard, made young female subordinates’ heels turn suddenly round, as they used to say.
He also had the Irish flush - which at a distance or in good lighting could have been taken for a Perpetual Tan – together with an Insistent Nose.
In short, he was a prize.
First of all, he said, in a deep voice that betrayed the excessive cultivation of the formerly uncultivated, I’d like to thank you for taking this on. It means a lot to me.
Not a problem, I said. It’s my pleasure.
Not to mention that I hardly had a choice, I neglected to add.
Really, it does, he said, as though I might be doubting his sincerity.
I appreciate that, I reassured him.
I guess you know that Jules and I have had our problems, he said.
I’ve heard a few things.
Well, pay no attention. He’s my son. I’m not going to let him twist in the wind.
Of course not.
Wouldn’t look good.
He lifted up a large glass ashtray. Shifted it from hand to hand.
Bad for business, he elaborated.
I nodded. I struggled to keep my poker face.
FitzGibbon looked at the lacquered gent in the other chair.
The salsa guy was staring straight at me, scowling. Like I might spring up any second and spray the joint with slugs from a cleverly concealed Uzi.
I know, FitzGibbon said. You think I’m just another arrogant rich guy.
He paused. I did my best to maintain my neutral, expectant air.
Eight kids, he continued. My father left when I was five. Never gave us a dime til he died. Westchester to Hell’s Kitchen. Mom died when I was sixteen. I was the oldest. I took care of the rest. Worked my ass off.
I nodded sympathetically.
It wasn’t easy.
I can imagine, I said, sincerely. But didn’t your father have to pay child support?
Those were different days, he said.
I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.
I started my own business, he said. I’m not saying I was a genius. I’m no genius. But I built it up from scratch. Machine tools. Built it up. Branched out. Trucking. Taxi fleets. Whatever came along.
I nodded admiringly.
Didn’t let anything get in my way, he said, giving me a new kind of Look.
It was the kind of Look that told me it wouldn’t be wise to get in his way.
He let the Look linger for a while. I shifted in my chair. The room was uncomfortably warm. My hands felt sticky. I wiped them on my trousers, as discreetly as I could.
And I don’t keep it all to myself, he said.
I see, I replied.
Sure. I’m active in the community. The mayor’s antidrug task force. I’m the chairman. I fund the whole damn thing.
That’s very admirable, I said.
I wondered why he seemed so anxious to impress me.
And then I got lucky, he said. I raised my eyebrows.
I met Veronica. Beautiful woman. Fell in love with her.
He fixed me with a challenging stare.
I did, he said, with a touch of aggression. Whatever you’ve heard, we married for love.
The fact was, I’d heard nothing. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.
So if I’ve still got a few rough edges …
His face went blank. He stared into space.
I took the unfinished sentence as my cue to make a contribution.
Well, I said, I can relate to t
hat.
Really? he said, turning back to me.
Sure. I flunked out of high school myself, originally. Had to go back later, to get into college.
Jesus H. Christ, that a fact? You hear that? he asked, turning to Mr. Hairdo.
Mr. Hairdo didn’t take his eyes off me.
It is, I said. Charles probably didn’t tell you about that.
No, he didn’t. Probably thought I’d be put off.
FitzGibbon pondered for a moment.
Warwick’s a pompous ass, he said.
I smiled, involuntarily. Maybe this guy wasn’t so bad after all.
My wife’s the only reason he gets my business, he continued.
I see, I said.
She and Joan are close.
Joan Warwick?
They were on some conceptual art committee or something together. At the Modern.
Hence the ropy thing on the coffee table, I surmised.
His eyes wandered to the window. I could have sworn they misted up a bit.
I was beginning to wonder when FitzGibbon was planning to get around to talking about his son’s little problem. I was also getting a little concerned about the drift of the conversation. I didn’t trust myself not to blurt out some random comment about Joan Warwick’s taste in men. For all I knew we were being recorded, for Warwick’s later entertainment.
I decided to get to the point.
What do you know about Jules’s situation? I asked.
He stared at me. He looked confused.
Jules? I repeated. Anything you can tell me about his situation?
Jules? he bellowed. Not a damn thing. I got a call from some public defender guy. Seems Jules didn’t have the balls to call home himself.
Well, I said, I suspect he wasn’t thinking too clearly.
It was FitzGibbon’s turn to give me the raised eyebrow. Thinking I was making some reference to drugs, I surmised.
Stress, you know, I clarified. It’s not every day you get arrested. I assume he’s never been arrested before?
Not that I know of. But that isn’t saying much.
His voice trailed off. He picked up the ashtray again. Gazed at it intently. As though it had some secret to reveal.
I kept my counsel.
He looked up at last.
All right, he barked. Head over there. Find out what’s going on. Warwick says you’re a top-notch guy. I’ll have to take his word for it.
I was flattered. Sort of.
Apparently the audience was over.
I got the particulars from FitzGibbon’s secretary. Jules had called from a lockup downtown. She gave me the address.
Mr. Security followed me out. Sat on the edge of her desk. Gave her a smile. Gave me a Look.
I felt like I was interrupting something. Something I probably didn’t want to know about.
5.
I GRABBED A CAB. The plastic pine tree air freshener hanging from the mirror did little to disguise the smell of sausage and green peppers.
The jail was bleak. Outside, a prisoner in white coveralls was tending a tiny wilting garden. He gave me an obsequious smile.
Inside, I was ignored. I asked around til someone directed me to a large square woman. She ruled behind an elevated counter fronted by bulletproof glass. One look and she knew my type. The big-shot lawyer hired by someone’s daddy. I asked to see Jules FitzGibbon.
Jules FitzGibbon? Harry, you got a Jules FitzGibbon back there? she shouted over her shoulder in a heavy New Jersey accent. It came out ‘beck they-ah.’
I heard an indeterminate growl from the back.
Miss New Jersey turned back to me.
Nah, she said. They let him go.
Ah, I said. Well. I understand he was questioned here earlier. Is there someone I can talk to?
She gave me a withering look. Didn’t answer.
I had an idea.
Hey, I said, is Butch Hardiman on duty?
Butch? she said. Maybe.
I took that for a yes.
Would you do me a favor and call him? Tell him Rick Redman’s here?
She added a layer of skepticism to her cynicism. Picked up the intercom. Paged Butch.
When he came out, Butch had his big smile on for me. Butch was an old buddy. We’d been on opposite sides of a case or two. We understood each other. I asked him if he knew what was up with this Jules FitzGibbon. Told him I was the kid’s lawyer.
Don’t know much, he said. They brought him in on something. Not enough to hold him on it. Sent him home.
What’s the ‘something’?
Don’t know, he said. Wasn’t here when they brought him in.
You got an address for him?
I can get it for you. Ask around a bit.
Hey, I said. Appreciate it. We’ll catch up next time.
Sure thing, buddy, he said.
Butch always made me feel good.
6.
IT WAS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE to get a cab downtown in the afternoon. After ten minutes of futility a beat-up gypsy car rolled by. The driver gave me the ‘you need a cab?’ look. I leaned in the window to negotiate.
The guy smelled of anchovies.
I got in anyway.
The traffic was hell. Why should today be different from any other day? Hey. Not so bad. Gave me time to think.
I leaned back.
I thought about my life.
It wasn’t entertaining stuff.
I thought about Melissa.
Some months before, we’d taken her to the Emergency. She’d fallen down, hit the bathtub with her head. Kelly had found her, lying on the tiles in a pool of blood as big as Lake Wobegon. Melissa had opened her eyes.
How was school? she’d said to Kelly.
She was that far gone.
Kelly had called me at the office. I’d interrupted my nap. Rushed home. We’d tried to get her into the car, but she wouldn’t go.
There’s nothing wrong with me, you prick, she’d yelled, blood spraying from her mouth.
So we’d had to call the cops. She’d liked that even less. They’d strapped her down. Loaded her into the ambulance.
She’d let loose with a few nouns and adjectives I didn’t know she knew, before the EMTs shot something into her, and she got quiet. Kelly and I sat with her in the back, on flimsy fold-out seats. I felt too big, like an adult in kindergarten. Kelly’s eyes were red from crying. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
They kept her for five days. She’d lost a lot of blood. Had a minor stroke along the way. No permanent damage, they said. I wondered. I still wonder.
Kelly and I went to the hospital to pick her up. A nurse brought her to us in a wheelchair. She seemed small. Humbled. It was strange to see her that way. Disconcerting.
I’d never thought of her as small.
We were taken to see Steiglitz.
There was something too slick about Steiglitz. He had that George Hamilton thing. Bronze tan, set off beautifully against his pristine white lab coat. Sparkling, manicured teeth. Six foot five if he was an inch. Smooth baritone. Vaguely European accent.
Come to think of it, there was a whole lot too slick about him.
But he was good at what he did. The best, I’d been told.
He made us wait. Kelly sat on the green couch. I sat in the armchair. Behind the desk, a large picture window gave on to the East River, dark and languid in the rain. Brooklyn on the other side. A large windowless building dominated the view.
We all stared out the window.
We didn’t talk.
There was nothing to say.
Steiglitz entered, filling the room with color and charisma. As if from another world. Large. Larger than life.
We were diminished.
He strode to the desk. Sat down. Looked us each in the eye, ending with Melissa.
Hello, Melissa, he said.
Hello, Dr. Steiglitz, she replied.
You’ve got a problem.
I know, she whispered.
H
e turned to me.
It’s very simple, he said. When it gets to this point, there’s nothing we can do.
He paused to let that one sink in.
As professionals, I mean. The best we can do is show you the way. Give you some tools.
Okay, I said.
She’s not going to change.
Though he looked straight at her as he said this, he spoke in the third person.
Unless, he continued.
Unless?
Unless she hits rock bottom.
If this wasn’t rock bottom, I asked myself, what was?
And even then, he said. Even then. There’s no guarantee. This has gone very far. But I can tell you, with complete assurance, that if she doesn’t hit rock bottom, nothing will change. Or at least, if she doesn’t really, truly believe that next time, she’s going to hit rock bottom.
He paused, but clearly wasn’t finished.
We waited.
He looked straight at Melissa.
She’ll be dead within a year, he said. Maybe two.
No emotion showed on his face. He was simply stating a fact. His voice was still the silky baritone of the late-night radio announcer.
Melissa looked at the floor.
I’m trying, she mumbled.
You’re trying, he said, a note of sarcasm creeping in. All right. Let’s examine that. What is the longest period of time you’ve gone without a drink? In the last year.
There was a long pause while she thought about that.
I quit at Christmas, she said at last.
Kelly looked up at me, brows knitted. If she had quit at Christmas, it was news to us. She’d been, if anything, more absent then than ever.
I didn’t ask you when, said Steiglitz. I asked you how long.
He was slowly raising his voice. Playing the prosecutor. Melissa was so shrunken, so beaten down. I felt protective. I wanted to say something. But Steiglitz gave me a Look.
The Look said: Don’t do it.
How long did you quit for? he repeated.
Three weeks, she said, barely audible.
Three weeks, he nodded. When did you stop?
Christmas Eve. I stopped on Christmas Eve. I wanted to be there for Kelly.
We could barely hear her. Kelly looked at her feet. Melissa hadn’t been there Christmas Eve. She’d been asleep in Kelly’s room. We’d eaten without her.
And when did you start again?