by Grant Mccrea
It was time to get down to business.
Time’s running out, I said. The preliminary hearing’s in less than two weeks.
Let’s get to work, then.
What next?
Sounded like you had something in mind.
I don’t. Sue me.
Jesus. Okay. Let’s go talk to the twins.
Sure. We can appeal to their sympathy. Tell them I’m in danger of being fired. They’ll confess.
Just talk to them. Get to know them. God knows what information they may have. Maybe without even knowing it.
I suppose.
All right, then. Pick one.
I’ll take Raul. I’m not sure I’ve exactly ingratiated myself with Ramon.
All right. I’ll take Ramon.
But there’s just one thing.
What?
I don’t have any idea where he is.
Oh ye of little faith, she said.
She fished into her purse. Pulled out a pack of matches. Handed it to me. Inside, a telephone number.
Cell phone?
Little faith, but quick off the mark.
She strode out of Starbucks. She looked good from the rear. Hell, she looked good from every angle.
75.
I LOOKED AT THE PHONE NUMBER. What the hell was I going to say to this guy to get him to meet me? What was I going to say to him if he did?
For lack of something more creative, I decided to try the truth.
I dialed the number.
A voice answered. A smooth voice. Smooth, but not friendly.
Raul here, it said.
Raul?
Here.
Ah. Raul, we’ve never met. But I was hoping you might have a few minutes to chat.
Chat?
He said it as if it were a word he hadn’t heard before.
Talk for a few minutes. Place of your choosing. I’m buying.
Who are you? I’d forgotten that bit.
I’m Rick Redman. I’m a lawyer. I’m representing your brother.
My brother doesn’t have a lawyer.
He hung up.
Well, I thought. What was that all about?
I sipped my coffee.
Oh. Maybe he’d misunderstood.
I called back.
Raul here.
Your other brother, I said quickly. Your adoptive brother.
Long silence.
Raul?
Yes?
Jules. I represent Jules. Your father hired me. We spoke briefly the other day. About the bail.
And?
And I’d like just a few minutes of your time. Like I said, wherever you like. Whenever’s convenient.
Long pause.
Okay, he said.
All right. Thank you. I really appreciate it. I won’t take much of your time. Where would you like to meet?
Here.
Happy to do that. If you would be so kind as to tell me where ‘here’ is.
My place.
Could I have the address?
He gave it to me. Park Avenue. The bachelor pad. I was looking forward to seeing it.
I’ll be there in half an hour, I said.
I grabbed a cab. The driver smelled of shawarma and aluminum foil. On the way I called up Laura. Made an appointment. To have some living part of myself purloined.
She was pleased.
I wasn’t.
The twins’ place was a standard Upper East Side fortress. Massive block construction. Elegant multipaned windows. In every one a very fancy set of drapes. Uniformed doorman. Red jacket. Epaulets. Obsequious air.
Rick Redman for Raul FitzGibbon, I said.
He’s expecting you, he replied.
My. The personal touch.
Mr. Epaulet led me to the end of a narrow marble corridor. There was a single elevator there. In the elevator there was one unmarked button.
Nice to have your own.
I pressed the button.
The elevator rose.
It was silent, smooth. A sleek ride.
The elevator opened silently, right into a large, opulent living room. The walls were upholstered in burgundy silk. The furniture was lavish. Old. Polished to a moneyed glow. The drapes were heavy gold brocade, and closed. The room was lit by innumerable small lamps. Every surface seemed to have one.
A faint sweet odor permeated the place.
A pretty woman wearing a maid’s costume straight from central wardrobe urged me to sit on a massive dark green couch. I sank into it at least a foot.
When the time comes, I thought, it’s going to be hard to get out of this thing.
Please, sir, can I get you something? asked the maid.
I had expected some kind of foreign accent. I got Texas. Well, you can’t be right all the time.
She had a nice bit of cleavage going though.
I’ll have a Scotch, I said. On the rocks.
Live dangerously, I thought. Hell, you already are.
Miss Texas brought me a Scotch in a giant snifter. I stuck my nose in it. Smoke. Peat. Laphroaig. Had to be. The guy had good taste in single malts.
Raul entered.
He was an elegant sonofabitch, too. I had to give him that. He was dressed in black. Italian suit. Highly polished black shoes. Black silk shirt. One of those deep, deep tans that don’t seem real. His hair looked like it cost more than my car. If I had a car.
I saw the family resemblance, but it wasn’t striking. Non-identical, I concluded. One theory out the door.
I struggled to stand up. The couch enveloped me. He smiled a charming smile.
No, no, he said, don’t get up.
His English was cultivated, flawless. No Spanish accent. I didn’t know why I’d expected one. They’d come here young, I reminded myself. Been here at least a decade.
He walked over, extended a hand. His grip was firm and dry.
He seemed less like his brother every moment.
He sat in the matching armchair across the room. He looked absurdly far away. Like I’d have to shout for him to hear me.
There was some idle chatter. I complimented the decor. Asked about the paintings on the walls.
I understand you had something to do with the White Swallow, I said.
Raul smiled.
Yes. We helped out a bit.
We?
Ramon and I.
Really? Is this a sideline of yours?
We’re trying to turn it into a real business, actually. Father’s been very supportive.
Is that a fact? How would you make a profit with this business, if you don’t mind my asking?
His smile grew broader.
People love to talk about themselves. Raul was no exception.
We have some skills. Some people are willing to pay handsomely for them. Up to now we’ve been giving out free advice. To people we like. Our friends. But we decided it was time to make a profit from it.
Great. I’m a big fan of free enterprise. What kind of advice?
Club advice. How to run a club. How to make a place popular with the right people.
Oh, I get it. Yes. That could be quite lucrative, I imagine.
We’re hoping so.
That’s really interesting, I ruminated. Can you give me an example of the advice you plan to sell?
Well, said Raul with a wry smile, the whole idea is to charge for the advice. If I start giving it out free, it defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?
Sure, sure. I understand. But I’m not in the club business. I don’t even know anybody in the club business. And anyway I promise it won’t leave this room. I’m just curious, that’s all.
Okay. But you’ve got to solemnly promise.
Sure. I’m a way solemn guy.
He grimaced slightly. But gave in anyway.
I’m sure you’ve noticed, he said, that most bars, particularly highend bars, try to hire pretty women as waitresses?
Not a detail that’s escaped my notice.
The idea being that men will want to c
ome to the bar, stay in the bar, to ogle the pretty women.
He said it ‘oogle.’ I hate that. The damn word is ‘ogle.’
Sure, I said, makes sense.
Yes it does. But something else makes more sense.
Okay. Enlighten me.
You hire pretty men.
Ah. Um. I’m not sure I get the point.
The point is this: You scour the gyms, the modeling agencies, the actors’ studios. You hire a bunch of slim but muscular young men. You dress them in tight clothes. What happens?
You just opened a gay bar?
No, what happens is that the women come to ogle the men. And once the women start coming, the men follow, to try to pick up the women. Much more satisfying than ogling waitresses. The waitresses are unobtainable, for the most part, and busy anyway. They don’t have time for seduction. But if a man knows that a bar will be full of good-looking young women, women self-selected for their interest in good-looking men, the good-looking men will flock to the place. And that will bring in yet more available women. And the cycle continues.
I paused to think that through. Jesus, the guy had something there.
You’re a fucking genius, I said.
Raul smiled. Didn’t deny it. No false humility in this one.
Well, listen, I said, I’d love to hear more, but I guess I should do my job.
Which is?
I’m trying to gather information.
About Jules?
Jules, Larry Silver, whatever.
Larry who?
Larry Silver. The dead guy.
The dead guy, he said with a wry smile. Yes. I’ve never heard his name before.
You don’t read the papers?
No, actually.
He turned to the girl in the maid costume. She’d been waiting demurely in the corner of the room.
Diane, he said. Club soda, please.
He was almost deferential to her.
I had to admit he had some charm.
Maybe he could lend some to his brother.
Well, I said. Perhaps you could tell me something about Jules.
I wish I could. But I don’t know much. When we were adopted, he was a bit upset. I guess you can understand that. We didn’t understand at all, of course. We were so young. It was such a different world. To us, the whole thing was a dream. We had no capacity to understand a sad, neglected boy.
I see. That’s understandable. But later?
Later he was gone. He lived in the house for a while. But he was never there. And when he was there, we never saw him. He didn’t want to see us. Or his father. He wanted to be far away.
You never got to know him at all?
Not really. It’s too bad. It’s kind of sad, he said.
If he didn’t mean it, he was a hell of an actor.
I was leaning to the latter theory.
Have you made any effort to reconcile? I asked. To help him?
He sipped his club soda.
Sure, he said. We invite him to family events. We send him presents on his birthday. But whatever we did, to him it always seemed, well, insulting. I always thought that if we pressed things any further it would only make him hate us all the more.
Us?
Ramon, me, Father.
I see.
I waited for more. I waited to see if he’d fill the silence. As so many had before him. But he was good. He was very good. The seconds ticked by. The indulgent smile never left his face.
I looked straight in his eyes. They betrayed nothing.
Another Scotch? he asked at last.
So, you haven’t talked to him lately?
Who? he asked, with a slightly puzzled frown.
Jules.
No.
Has he been in contact with his father?
Not that I know of.
Raul’s smile grew ever so faintly tense at the edges.
The man was thinking.
What about Ramon?
Ramon?
Is Jules in contact with him?
Raul gave out a slightly exasperated sigh.
I can’t speak for Ramon. But I would be awfully surprised.
I see.
I gave the silence another chance to work.
It didn’t.
Another Scotch? he asked again.
While his repertoire was highly polished, it was somewhat limited.
No thanks, I said. I’ve got to get going.
Too bad, he said with a small frown.
The perfect host.
I struggled out of the couch. I felt faintly foolish. I shook his hand. I thanked him for his time. He pressed the elevator button for me. With his left hand.
I took the elevator down. I nodded at the doorman. I hailed a cab.
Looks like I confirmed my theory, I said to myself.
That something might be going on.
And I don’t know what it is.
76.
WE COULDN’T HAVE A FUNERAL. We didn’t have a body. God knew how long the ghouls were going to keep her. Keep taking little bits of her for tests. And anyway I had to draw the line somewhere. I wasn’t going to call a funeral home. I wanted nothing to do with that. Kelly would have to settle for a memorial service.
I didn’t want a service, either. But my reasons were selfish. I didn’t want to go through it. I didn’t want to hear a hundred different ways how sorry everybody was.
I hated going to funerals. I never knew what to say. I couldn’t bring myself to speak by rote. ‘I’m so sorry. He was a beautiful person. He lived a full life.’ But the alternatives were just as dire. Tell the truth? ‘Hardly knew the guy, actually. I hear he was an arrogant sonofabitch.’ ‘Just here to put in an appearance, folks. Hoping to curry favor with some potential client I heard would be here.’
No, not really feasible.
Think up some original and striking way to say the obvious? Couldn’t do it. Beyond my ability.
So I usually found myself shaking hands and saying nothing. Putting on an empathetic face. Feeling inadequate and out of place.
And truth be told, I simply didn’t want to make anyone else go through that.
But Kelly told me otherwise.
Not everybody’s a grouch like you, she said. They like a service. It makes them feel good. They come, they see old friends. They remember. It’s important to people. There’s a reason everybody does it, Daddy. Get over yourself.
Well, of course she was right. And I certainly wasn’t going to argue the point. I wasn’t going to tell my angel child she couldn’t mourn her mother’s death in any way she chose.
So a service there was. Complete with pomp and ceremony and a reception afterwards that set me back a cool five grand.
I could have made a speech. A eulogy. But there wasn’t a chance that I could pull it off. So I kept it simple. Recited the twenty-third psalm. That was it. Nothing else.
It was perceived as eloquent. A beautifully minimalist gesture. I didn’t hasten to correct the perception.
Some AA acquaintance of Melissa’s buttonholed me afterwards. I’d never seen him in my life. He was dressed in denim coveralls. Paint-splattered. An artist of some type, I surmised. Or a housepainter. He came up to me. Shook my hand. It gave me the creeps. All those AA folks were past masters at the art of being your lifelong buddy the first time they met you.
That was the best version of the twenty-third I’ve ever heard, he said.
I resisted it. But it made me feel good. Him saying that. Apparently I’d done something right.
Jerry, he said his name was. He introduced me to a cabal of other AA folks. They were all my new best friends. Lucia, small and fat and bubbly. Ron, a tall cadaverous man with missing teeth and an enormous hand that almost swallowed mine. A brace of mismatched lesbians in threadbare suits and ties, Janice and Phoebe. The whole crowd of them would not have looked out of place on a Bowery street corner, back when the Bowery was the Bowery. Or filing out of a seedy church basement after Meeting, desperately pulling
out the cigarettes they’d been forbidden to smoke inside.
I was surrounded by them. I felt like an alien among aliens.
Melissa was a special person, said Lucia.
Here we go, I thought. Cliché time.
Her jokes, Lucia said, were so subtle.
Jokes? Melissa? I didn’t think I’d seen her laugh at a joke in a decade. Let alone tell one. And this coming from a tiny round woman in a polyester flower-print dress.
There was something going on here, and I didn’t know what it was.
I’d call them Mel-isms, said Jerry.
The whole group laughed knowingly.
She had a unique perspective, said Jerry.
She sure did, said Lucia.
I never met anybody so sardonic, said Ron, his big smile displaying the black gaps in his mouth.
Janice and Phoebe nodded.
And her cakes, said Janice.
They were the best, said Ron.
Everybody was excited when she’d come to a meeting, said Phoebe’s small voice.
There’d be cake, said Jerry.
The best, said Janice.
Mmmmm, they all said, laughing.
Cakes? Melissa had never baked anything in her life.
I looked about me. Five absurd faces. Five bodies of bizarrely varying sizes and shapes. Five portraits from the Gallery of Freaks. Talking of Melissa as if they’d known her from childhood.
I wondered if I’d stumbled into someone else’s memorial service.
You were a very lucky man, to have shared her life for a while, said Ron, putting an arm on my shoulder.
They all nodded in agreement.
I’m surprised to see you don’t weigh three hundred pounds, said Janice.
All that cake! exclaimed Lucia with glee.
General laughter.
Oh God, I thought. I’m dreaming. I’ve been transported into a David Lynch movie.
She’ll be in my thoughts forever, said Janice in a tearful growl. Every day.
Mine too, squeaked Phoebe.
More head-nodding.
I needed to be alone. I mouthed a few platitudes. I turned to look for a quiet corner in which to brood.
And there was Jake.
With tears in his eyes.
Red blotches on his face, his neck.
He was almost prostrate with apparent grief.
He threw his arms around me. Buried his head in my shoulder.
I’m so, so sorry, he sobbed.
I extracted myself.
Thank you, I said, a puzzled frown on my face.