Dead Money

by Grant Mccrea

  I changed the subject.

  There’s something to be said for displacement, I said. It’s the differentiation. I read an article about it the other day.

  Sheila leaned forward.

  I loved the way she always seemed interested in what I had to say. So what if I was paying her to be interested? So what if she probably acted just as interested in the turgid tales of all those addicted idiots, every stupid recidivist story of stopping and starting and telling the wife and kids they’re sorry and starting again and puking blood in the airplane bathroom and passing out and not remembering a thing the next day and wondering where the hell that big gash on their forehead and the stuffed penguin came from, sounding exactly the same after a while from every pathetic one of them? So what?

  I liked it anyway.

  Children, I continued, the theory goes, contrary to the popular conception, go out of their way to differentiate themselves from their siblings. People are always surprised. My, they say, how different Johnny is from Joe. But it’s actually not surprising at all. It’s the natural order of things.

  I was on a roll.

  Differentiation is a strategy designed to maximize parental attention, I went on. A Darwinian world like any other. Your older brother already has a lock on, say, freestyle Frisbee. You can’t compete. He’s had three years’ practice before you were born. So you take up tennis. Occupy the tennis side of Mommy’s brain. Find a vacuum. Fill it.

  There’s a lot of truth to that, Sheila said.

  Yes, I said, but here’s the problem: You grow up. You become a lawyer. And then what? Who do you compete with for attention, wealth, success? All those things that stand for love in this society? A bunch of goddamn lawyers, just like you. And in that world, anybody the slightest bit different is viewed with suspicion, fear, hostility. Contempt. Who does he think he is, wearing sneakers to work? It’s everywhere. Christ, they spy on you.

  Warwick, she said.

  Back to Warwick, I laughed.

  Of course, I mused aloud, without this competition to be the best of a bunch of folks just like you, we would never have a genius. The one who transcends it all. By taking sameness through the looking glass. Newton. Darwin. Shostakovich. But meanwhile, the rest of us pay the price. Anonymity. Wage slavery. Disgust. Despair.

  But some people don’t feel that way, she said.

  I suppose that’s right. Or at least not as strongly as I do.

  Not nearly.

  Not nearly.

  Next time we’ll explore that.

  Okay, I said.

  My time was up. I was always agreeable about the fifty-five-minute rule. Some people were offended. But I used to drive a cab. I understood how a meter worked.

  30.

  I CHECKED DORITA’S OFFICE. She was furiously typing something. So concentrated that she didn’t notice me in the doorway. Or so I thought.

  I quietly installed myself in her burgundy velvet armchair.

  Hi, Ricky, she said, without slowing down or looking up.

  Hi. Hey, did you have a rough childhood?

  Nah, not me, she said, the keyboard clattering away. Rabbi father, mom a junkie hooker. The normal suburban thing.

  I didn’t believe her, of course. Any more than I had the other seventeen times she’d invented a set of mismatched parents in response to a question about her past. Bikers, bankers, doctors, child molesters, thieves and poets. They’d all had their moment hanging from a branch on her invented family tree. I wasn’t sure whether she did it to protect herself from some truly awful family history, or because the truth was so benign, so uneventful, that she was ashamed of it.

  Either way, it was always entertaining to ask the question. To see what she’d come up with next.

  Stop that, I said.

  What?

  She looked up at last.

  Enough with the typing. I’m more important.

  Oh, all right, but if I lose my train of thought I’m making you finish it later.

  It would be my pleasure. Though I couldn’t hope to emulate your limpid prose.

  Limpid? she snorted, closing the door and lighting a cigarette. Have we been attending the book club meetings again?

  No, no. It’s just a word that always comes to mind in your presence.

  I’m not sure how to take that, she said, flopping theatrically into her high-backed leather executive chair, putting her stockinged feet up on her desk.

  Don’t. You don’t have to take it. Anymore.

  I won’t. I’m not going to take it anymore, damn it!

  We paused. We smiled. We were very pleased with ourselves.

  Where were you earlier? I asked.

  Lunching with some ladies, what else? What’s it to you?

  I needed you.

  Why should today be any different from any other day?

  Yes, but this time I really needed you. Lucky my shrink had a cancellation, or you might be calling an ambulance for me right now.

  Why for?

  I told her the story of my small triumph in court that morning. My subsequent deflation at the hands of Warwick.

  Warwick again, she said.

  Warwick again, I agreed.

  Ricky, Ricky, Ricky. You’ve got to get over this thing you have with him. You’ve let him inside your head. You don’t have to do that. He’s obnoxious enough from the outside.

  Easy for you to say. You didn’t grow up in the business with the prick. And get professionally eclipsed by him.

  That’s just what I’m saying. Who gives a shit? What price has he had to pay for that?

  Not one I’d be willing to pay.

  Precisely. You made your choices. They were the right ones. Live your life.

  Damn. If you’d been here earlier today I could have saved myself two hundred bucks.

  You’ll get my invoice in the mail.

  I’ve got a little T & E problem for you, darling, I said, throwing caution to the winds.

  I’m back on the team?

  You never left it.

  God, you know how to make a girl feel good.

  If only. Anyway, say I’ve got a trust deed. It leaves x gazillion dollars to my father, another gazillion to me. But I don’t get it until I reach twenty-five. And there are conditions that have to be fulfilled before I get the money. So, I turn twenty-five, but one of the conditions hasn’t been fulfilled. Who gets the money?

  Are you pretending I don’t know what you’re talking about?

  Yes.

  Well, it’s pretty lame.

  I know. But given the circumstances, I don’t have much choice.

  Those nasty conflicts issues.

  You got it.

  So. To answer your question. It depends on a lot of things, my dear boy.

  I knew you were going to say that.

  Of course I’m going to say that. If life were simple, we wouldn’t need lawyers, would we?

  Good point. So, what does it depend on?

  First, whether the condition can be fulfilled later, and whether the gift is worded in such a way as to allow later fulfillment.

  Let’s say it’s irrevocable.

  An irrevocable trust?

  No, no. The condition. The fact that the condition isn’t fulfilled. Say it says you can’t collect if you’ve been convicted of a felony. And you have.

  That again.

  This is purely hypothetical.

  Right. Well, I suppose there could be cases where that wasn’t an irrevocable event. It gets overturned on appeal. You get a pardon. It depends on the wording, though. It always comes back to that. Did you get the language?

  No, I didn’t. I’m working on that, I lied.

  The fact was, I couldn’t remember. And anyway I hadn’t turned the page. Could have been all sorts of other clauses I hadn’t seen.

  Let’s keep it simple, I said. Let’s assume the conviction stands. I want to know who gets the money.

  This is as simple as it gets, Ricky: it depends. I’ve got to see the langua
ge.

  I don’t have the language. Right now.

  Then it’s very hard to answer the question. Because there can be express provisions for that. If there aren’t, then the law is complicated. Heavily fact-dependent. Most of the time, though, it would go to the nearest relative. Whoever would inherit the donor’s estate upon death, if the gift hadn’t vested yet.

  FitzGibbon.

  Oops.

  I didn’t say that.

  Right. Anyway, could be. But let’s get the language. Can’t you just call up your buddy Kennedy?

  I’m sure he won’t give it to me, I said. It’s a client confidence. Kennedy’s a real stickler for that kind of stuff. He won’t bend any rules. I mean, frankly, if I were Kennedy I wouldn’t give it to me either.

  Then we’ve got a problem.

  I know.

  Ricky, you’ve got a client here. And he’s not about to lose a lousy couple million. The kid could go to jail. And soon.

  Good point.

  So what are you going to do about it?

  I don’t know. I was hoping you’d have an idea or two.

  My God, Ricky, do I have to do everything for you?

  Well, not everything. But most things.

  Jesus, she said, lighting another long thin cigarette.

  She took a good haul. Blew a river of smoke to the ceiling. Looked me in the eye.

  Okay, she said, let’s get down to it. Hit the pavement. Examine the paper trail. We need more data points.

  Data points? You’re kidding me, right?

  It’s just shorthand, Ricky. The point is, the more you know, the more you know.

  Can’t argue with that. Okay, data points. Such as?

  The usual stuff. Credit card records. Bank accounts. Telephone records. Did the deceased have a cell phone?

  Who the hell doesn’t?

  Phone records are always interesting. We should get everybody’s.

  God’s in the details.

  And the more details you have, the closer you get to seeing the face of the Almighty.

  Yeah. Data points. The Almighty. I’ll see what I can do.

  Redemption awaits.

  So much better than rehabilitation.

  31.

  JAKE’S BIG GAME. I was looking forward to it. Something different. Something new. Something less Delphic than daily life. I reserved a limo, put it on the office tab. Research, I told myself. If I was going to be the house criminal lawyer, I had to get to know the criminal element.

  Eighth and thirty-eighth, Jake had said. Not a nice neighborhood. In the civilized parts of the city, your eyes relentlessly were drawn to street level: the lights, the signs, the people. The store windows, with their stuffed rabbits and silk dresses. Here, at 10 p.m., there was none of that. Solid metal shutters put the doorways and the windows far beyond reach. The buildings were uniformly dirty gray. Monoliths. Nothing to see. Your gaze drifted upward. It wasn’t pretty up there. Broken window panes. Dirt. The grime of ages. No doubt the upper parts of buildings were as squalid elsewhere in the city. But here you saw it. You looked up. You noticed.

  The limo driver had let me off at the corner. There were no numbers on the buildings. I saw no open doorway on the block. Was this the right block? Was there really such a place? Had Jake led me on, led me into some …setup? I hardly knew the guy, after all. What was it that Hal had said about him not meeting your eyes? Was I too naive? Would meaty guys with hairy palms grab me from behind, take my wallet, my watch, my life? Who’s that dark and dangerous-looking fellow on the corner, anyway?

  Foolish thought. Too elaborate a ruse, for such a paltry goal. I looked again at the corner. Nobody there. The hulking brute was gone. Or hadn’t been there at all.

  My cell phone rang. I jumped two feet. ‘Private number.’ I ignored it. Damn. I’d almost had a heart attack.

  I found the door at last. Dark gray. Flush with the building. Hard to see.

  Just push, Jake had said.

  I pushed.

  Inside, the space was small, old and dank. The walls were papered with ancient flyers. ‘Massage therapy: Call Helga.’ ‘Blues bassist wanted for trio.’ ‘Sofa for sale, slightly soiled.’ Love for Sale, I said to myself. Johnny Hartman. John Coltrane. Good. This is good.

  A low chuckle startled me. Apparently I’d been talking out loud. I turned around. There was a guy with a do-rag, hanging out. I hadn’t noticed him. Weird. He was sitting on a kitchen chair, in the corner. What was he doing there? He certainly didn’t look like a watchman. He chuckled again. I hoped it was a friendly laugh.

  I nodded to him, pressed the button for the elevator.

  The elevator took forever to descend. The do-rag guy was silent. I felt like I should say something. Strike up a conversation. But I couldn’t think of anything to say to a do-rag guy in a tiny fetid lobby at ten at night. Lobby? Much too grand a word. Sinkhole, maybe. Death trap. For the second time, I wondered if I’d come to the right place.

  Finally the elevator arrived, with much clanking and wheezing. I stepped in. Room for one. Two in a pinch. Random graffiti. ‘Jumbo D. sucks cock.’ I made a mental note. You never could tell what might turn out to be important.

  Fourth floor. Step out. Turn right, left at the end, past the men’s room door, from under which a sharp rank odor seeped. Three more doors. The red one. Laughter, shouts from inside.

  I knocked once.

  Twice.

  Silence.

  A voice.

  Yeah?

  It’s Rick.

  Rick?

  Jake invited me.

  Oh yeah. The voice grew fainter: Jake, your bud’s here.

  The sounds of chains and bars. The door opening. A heavy velvet curtain. The smell of mildew. The room lit deeply orange.

  I was through the looking glass.

  The place was tiny, windowless, rank with reefer smoke. Guitar cases, well-traveled steamer chests. A mammoth equalizer on a stand, a drum kit. A loft bed, rack on rack of CDs. Amps, a beer keg in the corner. A green felt poker table in the middle of it all. And that orange light.

  Rehearsal space, it seemed. Rock ‘n’ roll tricked out for poker night.

  It felt warm, and like a dream of childhood.

  Introductions. Mike, Jonesie, Jake, Riverstreet, the Dane, Andrea. And the other Jake.

  Yeah, said Mike, two Jakes. Straight Jake and Drunk Jake.

  My Jake was Drunk Jake. He looked at me with bleary eyes.

  Rick!

  Jake. How’s it going?

  Never better, Rick. Take a look.

  A mammoth pile of small-denomination bills sat on the table in front of him.

  Andrea laughed. A woman’s laugh. I liked that. Nicely out of place. Andrea. Slim, long-faced, all angles. Her arms delicate and muscular, all at once. Leaning forward. Open to inspection. Seductive. Between the sleeveless top she wore and jeans, the bottom of a tattoo. The apertures of a violin, or cello. Man Ray. A living Man Ray photo.

  I was in love already.

  Hey, man, take a seat, said Drunk Jake.

  The seat across from Andrea was free. Mike on my right, my Jake on my left, Straight Jake next to him.

  We’re playing hold’em, Drunk Jake said, leaning close to me, whispering with a whiskey breath. See that guy, Jonesie? Famous actor. You recognize him?

  Really? Don’t think so. What’s he been in?

  Just made his big breakout. Nine Times on Sunday. Seen it?

  No.

  Fact was, I’d never heard of it.

  I took Jake’s word for Jonesie’s budding stardom. For Straight Jake’s one-man show in Berlin, Riverstreet’s stock market killing, and the other morsels he slurred my way.

  It was true that everyone at the table seemed to exude a certain self-confidence. An aura. A charisma, if you will.

  When Jake told them I was a lawyer, it got the predictable response.

  Okay, I said, so I’m a lawyer. So shoot me. No, wait. Sue me.

  That got a laugh.
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br />   Listen, I said, now that I had an audience, it’s not true, all that stuff they say about lawyers. Or actually, it is true, but it’s only true about a certain type of lawyer. Plaintiffs’ lawyers. Ambulance chasers. Champions of the dispossessed. Bullshit artists. Most lawyers, actually, are more uptight than your great-aunt Gertrude. Won’t take a piss without clearing it with the Urination Committee.

  You say? said Mike.

  I do. They’re very fearful people. Not risk takers. Don’t ask a question you don’t know the answer to. That’s the cardinal rule of cross-examination. It’s built into the system. Fear. Fear of the unknown.

  Shit, I never heard that before, said Jonesie.

  Of course not. Why would we publicize it?

  He’s got a point, said Andrea.

  I usually do. Points are my thing. Getting to the point. Talking points. Pointed remarks. Singularities.

  I was warming up.

  Andrea took the bait.

  Ah. Singularities, she said.

  Points with no dimension, I replied.

  Are there any other kind?

  Infinitely dense points.

  The point of it all.

  She nodded as she said it, and dealt me pocket Queens.

  I felt a surge of euphoria. And it wasn’t just the cards. Here was a crowd I could relate to. I could let my mind and mouth run free.

  I bet twenty bucks. I was in early position, but I had a good feeling. Besides, I wanted to project the right table image. Aggressive but selective. If somebody called me down, saw my Queens, even if I lost the hand I’d still have made a point. I make a big bet, I’ve probably got a hand. I could use that later, bluff a few pots.

  As it was, Riverstreet raised me from the button. It was a pretty automatic call. The only question was whether I should re-raise. Feel him out. Anything other than a pair of Aces or Kings and I would be the favorite. If he came over the top on me, I could be fairly sure he had them, get out before I got in too deep.

  I re-raised.

  He just called.

  The flop came all rags. I bet out again. Riverstreet took his time. Looked me in the eye. If he had a hand, he was doing a good imitation of someone who didn’t. He raised.

  I went with my gut. I figured him for Ace King, Ace Queen, maybe a middling big pair like Tens. He was figuring me for the same, hoping to push me off the pot.