Dead Money

by Grant Mccrea

  I changed the subject fast.

  So Butch. Can you fill us in? What the hell is going on over there?

  Chaos. Chaos is going on over there. Nobody’s in charge. FitzGibbon was a big fucking cheese.

  I think we knew that.

  And now everybody’s pointing fingers. Why didn’t they follow up the Jules thing properly.

  They’re making a connection?

  They don’t know if there’s a connection. They don’t know anything. Problem is, everybody figured Jules was a lock for this Larry Silver thing. No point in wasting resources on it. But now they don’t know. They’re afraid somebody’s going to find something they missed. The press is all over it like blackflies in North Bay.

  North Bay? You been up there?

  Nah. Just sounded good.

  Good call. Okay. They have anything to make them think there’s a connection?

  How should I know?

  I thought you were plugged in.

  Plugged in to what? The circuits are all shorted out, Rick. The breakers are blown. It’s dark in there.

  Jesus, Butch, I never knew you were such a mean man with a metaphor.

  I have my moments.

  Listen, Butch, I said. Are the twins being held?

  Not that I know of. Questioned.

  Are they suspects?

  Don’t know. Really, I don’t. Like I said, it’s chaos in there.

  Can you get us in to see them?

  That’s a tall order. That’s a very tall order.

  That wasn’t the question.

  You’re right. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.

  Much obliged, I said, raising my glass.

  Hey. I owe you.

  I still didn’t know what for.

  Butch called minutes later. By the time he’d got back to the station house higher powers had intervened. Shut the place down like the Baghdad Green Zone. We were going to have to wait til the twins got out of there. Try to find a way to get them to talk to us.

  I knew enough to leave that part to Dorita.

  100.

  I WENT HOME to get some sleep.

  I didn’t get much.

  The phone rang. Dorita.

  We’ve got an audience, she said.

  Good work.

  I know. Be there in an hour.

  Where?

  The Park Avenue Palace.

  I’m on my way, I said.

  I drank two cups of coffee. I grabbed a cab. It smelled of clove cigarette smoke.

  I almost gagged.

  When we got to the Palace, Ramon was at one end of the living room, Raul at the other. A detail that did not escape me. I asked Ramon to join us at the sofa end of the room. He walked reluctantly over, perched on some kind of uncomfortable over-carved antique. Raul remained seated on his throne.

  Raul, Ramon, I said, choosing the order deliberately, I know it’s a rough time.

  Ramon looked at me impassively. Raul searched assiduously in his pockets for something. A lighter, it turned out. He lit a Marlboro Light.

  You know I’m here for Jules, I said. He’s my client. I still have an obligation to do the best for Jules. You understand that, right?

  Raul nodded. Ramon remained impassive.

  I know you must be very tired. We just have a couple of questions for you. You’ve probably answered them already, more than once. But we weren’t there. So I hope you’ll indulge us for a few minutes.

  Please, said Raul with his charming smile. Ask away.

  Ramon said nothing.

  I turned to Raul.

  Truffles, I said. What’s your position on truffles?

  His smile went a little crooked.

  I’m not sure I understand you, he said.

  Epicurean delight? Or Frog fraud?

  He paused a second to figure that one out. Then the charming smile came back.

  I think some thinly shaved white truffles can add to a dish, he said with a small chuckle.

  Interesting, I said. I incline more to the Frog fraud theory. I mean, think about the taste, in isolation.

  Kind of root-cellary, said Dorita.

  Precisely, I said. You know, if potatoes were as allegedly rare as truffles, I bet we’d be paying ten dollars an ounce for them, too.

  Maybe so, said Raul, chuckling. Maybe so.

  Ramon looked confused.

  I was beginning to peg him as the stupid one.

  I was feeling good. I’d established some rapport.

  I wasn’t fooling myself. This Raul was a slick one. He might well have had his own reasons to seem cooperative. But that was just fine. I could use that.

  Guys, I said, making sure to include some eye contact for Ramon. I need your help.

  Whatever we can do, said Raul.

  Ramon said nothing. Still trying to figure out that truffle thing.

  Can you tell us what happened with Mr. FitzGibbon yesterday? Everything you can remember?

  We did tell the police several times already, Raul said, shading the smile into apologetic mode.

  I understand. I know it’s a pain. But I often find that people remember different things when they’re talking to civilians. The police set up a certain dynamic.

  Ah, said Raul thoughtfully. An interesting notion.

  With more than one application, I said. But we can discuss that later. Do you mind going over it again once more?

  No, not at all, said Raul.

  I almost believed him.

  Fire away, I said.

  We were working.

  I’m sorry to interrupt so soon, I said, but what exactly were you working on?

  I directed my question at Ramon. I was still searching for a way to co-opt him. He was like a Sphinx, I’m tempted to say. But he was more like a brick.

  We were working on the plans for our new club.

  I see. You’re starting a new club of your own?

  That’s the plan.

  Okay, you were at Mr. FitzGibbon’s offices, working on the plans for your new club. Was anyone else there?

  No.

  I glanced at Ramon. His scowl appeared to have deepened, just a bit.

  Where in the building were you?

  We were in a conference room, on the same floor as Mr. FitzGibbon’s office.

  I noted the incongruous use of the patronymic. I also remarked that Raul, though speaking in the plural first person, never took his eyes off me. Never looked at Ramon. To include him in the conversation. To gauge the degree of consent he was getting for his collective pronouncements.

  And he was there too?

  Who?

  Mr. FitzGibbon.

  In his office, yes. He had some deal he was working on. Some takeover thing.

  Was it normal for him to work that late?

  Sure. All the time. He never stopped working.

  Okay, I said. So you’re working. He’s working. Then what?

  Then we heard the sirens.

  The sirens?

  Ambulances. Police. Fire trucks.

  He’d jumped?

  Apparently. Raul’s smile had turned sardonic. But we didn’t know that yet.

  I’m sorry, I said. I just wanted to make sure what you were talking about.

  Raul looked at me like a lizard looks at …well, like a lizard looks at just about anything.

  Then what happened? I asked.

  We went to his office. To see what was going on. There are no windows in the conference room, where we were. His office isn’t far away. He wasn’t there. The French doors, the doors to the balcony, were open. We went out, to look down into the street. To see what was happening. There were an awful lot of sirens. We thought there might have been a terrorist attack or something.

  I see.

  I looked at Ramon.

  He nodded his grudging assent.

  And then?

  We still didn’t know where Father was.

  So it was ‘Father’ now.

  We looked down. And then it started to occur to us. What mig
ht have happened.

  Raul was slowing down. He was in grieving son mode. I looked at Ramon. He was staring at the floor.

  I’m sorry, I said. I know this isn’t easy. Can you tell me what happened then?

  We found the note.

  There was a note?

  They both looked at me.

  You didn’t know about the note? asked Raul.

  I do now. What did it say?

  Raul hesitated.

  The police asked us not to tell anyone that, he said.

  I understand, I said. Where was it?

  On his desk.

  Handwritten?

  No. It was a printout.

  A printout?

  Of an e-mail.

  His suicide note was a printout of an e-mail?

  Yes.

  For the first time, they both looked uncomfortable.

  I let the silence sit for a while. Raul looked straight at me. His gaze was steady, but his confidence was wavering. I could feel it. Ramon was looking at his shoes.

  Who was it to? I asked.

  The e-mail?

  Yes.

  We can’t tell you that.

  The police asked you not to tell me that?

  They asked us not to tell anyone.

  Ramon nodded at his shoes.

  Had Mr. FitzGibbon said anything to you yesterday, any other time, that might help us understand why he did this?

  They both shook their heads. An almost convincing display of dismay.

  Well, said Raul, we appreciate your concern.

  Our time was up.

  Dorita and I exchanged glances.

  We needed that note.

  101.

  I HUNTED DOWN BUTCH. I got him on his cell phone. I asked him what he knew about the note. The e-mail. Not much, he told me.

  Who was the e-mail addressed to?

  I don’t know.

  Can we get a copy?

  Whoa, Rick, he said. That’s a tall order. That’s a really fucking tall order.

  I know, Butch. I hate to push it. You’ve been so great. But I think we’re on the verge. One last piece of the puzzle. That’s all we need. I just know this is connected to Larry Silver. I can feel it in my bones.

  Dorita raised her eyebrows.

  I ignored her.

  If this doesn’t crack it, I said, I won’t ask any more favors. Promise.

  Crack what, Rick? The guy threw himself out a window.

  Maybe, I said. Maybe not. And whether he did or not, there’s still the ‘why’ of it. You know that.

  There was a note.

  So what? Anyone can type a note.

  Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s not that I don’t want to do you the favor. You know I want to do it for you. But I’m not sure it’s possible. Shit. I don’t think I can get near it.

  Can you at least find out what’s in it? Can you ask around?

  I’ll see what I can do, Rick.

  You’re a prince, man. I’ll buy you a beer.

  You’re all heart.

  I know. It holds me back.

  I told Dorita what Butch had said.

  Next step is to track down Jules, she said.

  Maybe we should give him some time to settle down.

  I’m not sure there’s time now.

  Why not?

  I don’t know. It’s a feeling. People are dying.

  One person died.

  Two, counting Larry Silver.

  Okay, two.

  Things come in threes, Ricky.

  And I thought you had such a scientific mind.

  Everything in its place, darling. I’m not saying I’m right. I’m just saying I have a feeling.

  Let’s go with your feeling, I said. There’s not much else to go with.

  I knew you’d see it my way.

  I knew you knew that.

  I guess you win then.

  Finally, I said. Hey, don’t you think the way to Jules goes through Lisa? And isn’t she the weak link? Why don’t we try her first?

  I’m not sure I agree that she’s the weak link. Just because she’s a woman? Is that what you’re saying? I mean, we’re dealing with a guy who slices up his gut with razor blades.

  Good point. But I’ve dealt with both of them, and I’m telling you, he’s a tough nut to crack. She, on the other hand, seems to be constantly on the verge of breaking down, telling me something. Just my feeling.

  Now you’ve got a feeling?

  Yup. One of my very own.

  My, you’ve become so sensitive in your old age.

  It happens.

  So it’s your feeling against mine?

  No. I figured my reasoning was so compelling you’d be obliged to agree.

  Ah, I’m quite sure you’re wrong about that. But I’m willing to do it your way, if only to create the illusion that you’ve finally made a contribution to the enterprise.

  I’ll ignore that.

  Suit yourself.

  Where we’d find Jules, we’d no doubt find Lisa. Of course, they’d be together. An inconvenient detail. Back to Plan A.

  We went to the loft.

  We looked at the alley on the way.

  It looked like an alley.

  We rang the bell.

  We were buzzed in. No questions asked. All of a sudden everybody seemed to want to talk to us.

  I put it down to my natural charm.

  Saw you from the balcony, Jules said when he opened the door.

  He was sullen, but not overtly hostile. His anger seemed to have played itself out. Something about getting out of the police station, maybe.

  Lisa was there, preparing drinks.

  Hi, Lisa, I said.

  Hi, she replied, without turning around. Familiarity or contempt, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps a bit of both.

  You got a lot of nerve coming here, Jules said in a flat voice.

  You let me in, I replied.

  I did, he shrugged. You got me there.

  It was time for tough love. Nothing else was working.

  Listen, Jules, I don’t know what you were talking about at the station house. ‘Fucking with Lisa.’ I haven’t been fucking with Lisa. We just talked once. Before you got here.

  Sure.

  Let’s get this cleared up. I don’t need you fucking with me. I don’t need you at all, actually. We don’t have your father to pay the bills anymore. I should send you back to the public defender. But I’m not like that. I finish what I start. I’d think you might appreciate that a bit. And you sure as hell need me. What the fuck else do you have?

  He seemed to think about that.

  I don’t need shit, he said.

  Fine. That’s your attitude, good luck to you. Have fun in Sing Sing.

  I got up to leave. Dorita gave me an exasperated look. Setting up to play good cop.

  She didn’t have to.

  Okay, okay, said Jules. Sit the fuck down.

  He shrugged. He spread his hands. A gesture that could be taken as a small show of humility. A reluctant welcome.

  I sat down.

  What? he said.

  What what?

  What you want to know?

  Lisa came over with the drinks. Scotch for me. Cosmo for Dorita.

  Oh, said Dorita, my favorite. Thanks. How did you know?

  Look at you, said Lisa. It was a cosmo or a Tom Collins. I had a fifty-fifty shot.

  Dorita was speechless. It was a rare and disconcerting sight. Though not unpleasant, in its way.

  You’ve been a bartender, I said to Lisa.

  Sure, she said. I’ve been everything.

  I turned back to Jules.

  What we’d like to know, I said, is everything you know about your father’s death. Every detail. God is in the details.

  Ain’t no God.

  It’s just an expression, Jules. Try not to be so literal-minded.

  I’ll work on it.

  Good. Now, can you tell me everything you know?

  I don’t know shit.

  Jesus,
Jules. This is getting a bit boring. Do you always have to say that?

  I say the truth. Sorry you don’t like it.

  You’re telling us you don’t know a single thing that might shed any light on how your father died?

  Nope. Don’t know shit.

  Jules. You and I both know that’s not true.

  What the fuck do you know?

  It was time to pull a bluff. Nothing else was working. Ingratiation. Intimidation. Subtlety. The kid was too messed up to respond to the usual techniques. I had to take a chance. Go with a hunch. A stab in the dark. If it didn’t work, I’d find a way to recover. Turn it into a joke. Whatever.

  I know you were there, I said.

  It stopped him cold.

  He stared at me. Lisa came over and sat next to him. She put her arms around his neck. She didn’t look at us.

  I stared back at him. I waited.

  The fuck you say? he said at last.

  You were there, I repeated.

  Where?

  I laughed. I didn’t elaborate. The room had grown cold.

  Get the fuck out, he said. Get the fuck out of here.

  That again? I said. It’s not going to work, Jules. I’m here to help you. You can’t seem to get that into your head. I’m your lawyer. I need to know the facts. And I might leave here, but I’m not going away.

  We’ll see about that, he said.

  He said it with an intensity that I felt as a physical blow. My body tensed. What door had I opened here? What rock had I turned over?

  It was a threat. A physical threat.

  He got up. Started walking toward me.

  An immediate physical threat.

  Okay, okay, I said. We’re leaving.

  We got the hell out of there.

  Where in God’s name did you get that? Dorita asked once we were safely in the street.

  I don’t know, I said. It just came to me. I didn’t think it out. He was just so fucking calm about everything. And this is a kid who cuts himself. It didn’t make sense. There had to be something more. And why wouldn’t he tell us where he was? Why wouldn’t he take the opportunity to show he didn’t have anything to do with his father’s death? He knows he’s a prime suspect, with all that anger in him. And then it hit me. The phone calls. Raul and Ramon were using FitzGibbon’s offices. The phone calls didn’t have to be to FitzGibbon. They could have been to Raul, or Ramon. So I took a stab. What the hell.

  I’m in awe.

  About time.

  So, my little genius, what were the phone calls about?

  I haven’t figured that out yet. But I feel close. I feel really damn close.