Firm Ambitions

by Michael A. Kahn

  Gangster or Horatio Alger, or both? The three framed pictures left the mystery unanswered. His wedding portrait was stiff and serious—strong nose, dark hair, piercing eyes, handlebar mustache. By the time of the golf shot, most of the hair and the stiffness were gone. All remaining sharp edges had disappeared by the time of the ground-breaking for the Abram Landau Elementary School. Indeed, in the last shot he looked like a sweet old man, which, by all accounts, was the one thing Abram Landau definitely was not. No hint in any of the pictures of the former whoremaster and rumored racketeer, nothing to taint Harris Landau’s careful efforts to present himself as possessing the Jewish equivalent of Mayflower roots.

  I returned to my chair as the telephone conversation came to a close. “I’ll be there on Thursday,” Landau said. “We’ll talk then. Goodbye, Kit.” He hung up and turned to me with a penitent expression. “I apologize for that discourtesy, Rachel. The senator and I have been missing one another all day, and he is departing for Europe this evening. Now, where were we?”

  I smiled. “Nowhere, yet.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, first, I am delighted that you came here today. As a matter of fact, it was just this morning that I decided to contact you.” He steepled his hands in front of him, elbows on the desk. In an earlier era he would have removed a cigarette from a gold case, inserted it in a long silver holder, and lighted it with an elegant flick of his Dunhill lighter. “As you may imagine,” he continued, “Mrs. Landau and I are deeply saddened.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

  “Mrs. Landau had hoped it would never reach this stage,” he continued. “By contrast, I have always been the family pessimist. For the past few years the question for me has not been if but when.”

  I nodded my head sagely, as if I understood what he was saying.

  “But,” he continued with a sad shake of his head, “I had never suspected the addition of this last lurid detail.”

  “Which detail is that?”

  “Her tawdry affair with that slimy little Casanova.”

  I stiffened as I simultaneously realized what he was talking about and took offense on behalf of my client, Eileen. I fought the urge to suggest that perhaps a wife trapped in an empty marriage with his creepy son might seek the physical intimacy of an affair as a substitute for the emotional intimacy she’d been deprived of at home. But I kept quiet. He obviously had his own agenda for this meeting, and, as usual, I could learn more by listening than talking.

  He sighed. “My son has already had enough adverse publicity in his lifetime, Rachel.”

  “He has had some bad press,” I acknowledged.

  He nodded solemnly. “This time it would be far worse, for this time there are the children to consider as well. Innocent children. And your client, of course. Eileen is a woman with powerful social ambitions. To paraphrase William Herndon’s description of his former law partner, Abraham Lincoln: her social ambition is a little engine that never quits. Unfortunately for Eileen, her ambition outstrips her sophistication. Understandable, I suppose. After all, she is still new at all this. She may not yet grasp the full implications of her indiscretion. When one is climbing up the social ladder, one simply does not sleep with the help. Should her faux pas become generally known, Eileen will discover that her new friends consider that sort of liaison tacky, and in that circle to which she aspires, tackiness is fatal.”

  “Hold on, Mr. Landau,” I said, making the “time out” signal with my hands. “I’m lost.”

  He smiled good-naturedly. “Then I shall back up. To understand my stance you need to understand my view of the media. They operate contemporary America’s freak show. The publishers are the proprietors, the reporters are the barkers and the guides. Unfortunately, my son has been on display inside that tent before. Your sister and Andros have become the newest attractions. She has my deep sympathy. However,” and here he suddenly became intense and precisely stated each word, “I will not allow the press to put my family inside the tent again.” He paused, and his face relaxed into a pleasant smile. “This is good news for you, Rachel. It means that I do not want a messy divorce.”

  “Neither do I,” I said with a shrug, “but I don’t control your son.”

  He gazed at me in silence for a long moment. “I do,” he finally said. He looked down at his desktop, which was bare except for a leather-edged blotter, a portable dictation recorder, and an antique brass inkwell and quill pen. “At least on this matter,” he added softly as he lined the portable recorder even with the edge of the blotter. “I have discussed my concerns with Thomas. In addition, I have explained certain facts of life and economics to Mr. Debevoise Fletcher. I have informed both of them precisely what I am prepared to do.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and lifted out a sheet of paper. “As your financial expert will soon conclude,” he continued as he glanced at the information on the sheet, “my son is cash-poor. He is dangerously overleveraged in more than a half-dozen strip shopping centers, all of which are presently incapable of generating sufficient revenue to service the debt. There is little, if any, equity in any of the properties, and the lenders have wall-to-wall liens on all the assets. In addition, they hold personal guarantees signed not only by my son but also by your client.” He looked up from the sheet of paper, his eyes narrowing. “That means that, as things presently stand, your client will most assuredly be forced to sell her house, get a job, and lose her precious membership in my country club.”

  “Okay,” I said. Actually, my financial expert had already reached the same conclusion.

  “I offer an attractive alternative.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I will acquire one of my son’s shopping centers at a price that is seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars above the existing debt. Your client will receive that seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus the home, in full settlement of all marital rights if the divorce remains confidential.”

  I was taken aback. It was an extraordinary offer, given the present state of Tommy’s assets. “And what if the divorce doesn’t remain confidential?” I asked.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and firmly shook his head. “Then the offer is withdrawn. Totally. The entire transaction will be expressly conditioned upon entry of a final divorce decree without any mention of the dissolution proceeding in any newspaper or magazine of general circulation or any radio or television station in metropolitan St. Louis. If the divorce receives any publicity whatsoever, the sale is off and my proposal terminates.”

  It was a harsh condition, but given Eileen’s alternatives, Harris Landau’s proposal was far better than she could hope to obtain at trial. “It’s an interesting idea, Harris. I’ll explain it to my client and get back to you with our response.”

  “I’d prefer that you convey your response directly to Mr. Fletcher. From this point forward you should deal with my son’s attorney on all matters pertaining to his divorce.”

  “Fine.”

  He started to get up. “Rachel, I am quite pleased that we had this opportunity to—”

  I raised my hand. “Hold on a minute.”

  He stopped and looked at me with an amiably quizzical expression.

  “Actually, Mr. Landau, I came here to see you on a different matter.”

  “Good heavens, how rude of me.” He sat back down with a self-deprecating smile. “Please proceed.”

  “This other matter,” I said, “happens to involve the guy you called a ‘slimy little Casanova.’ But not his affair with Eileen.”

  Harris Landau nodded soberly.

  “I believe he was a client of yours,” I said.

  He looked mildly surprised. “Andros?”

  “Or his company, Firm Ambitions.”

  He leaned back in his chair and glanced up at the ceiling. He pursed his lips and pressed his index finger against his chin. “You are absolutely cor
rect,” he said after a moment. “As I recall, he came to us several years ago. We helped him set up his company.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he had actually dredged that information from somewhere deep in his memory or had just pretended to. He was smooth and controlled, the perfect corporate attorney. I watched him closely as I asked, “How did he end up with you as his attorney?”

  Harris Landau was far too masterly to give away anything in his face or body language. “As I recall, he came to us on a recommendation.”

  “From Charles Kimball?”

  Landau seemed to ponder the question. “I don’t believe I should answer that, Rachel.”

  “I know about Andros’s prior criminal problems,” I prompted.

  He raised his eyebrows. “If so, Rachel, you have not learned of them from me. Call me old-fashioned, but I should think that any such problems would fall within the attorney-client privilege.”

  “Fair enough. Actually, I wanted to ask you a few questions about the corporate structure you set up for Firm Ambitions.”

  “That was several years ago, Rachel, and, at least compared to the usual corporate matters my firm handles, it was a somewhat inconsequential matter. Frankly, I doubt whether I did any of the actual work on that matter.”

  “I’m not a corporate lawyer, but the whole structure seems way too elaborate for a little exercise company.”

  He gave me a look of ignorance, or a superb impression of a look of ignorance. “Too elaborate?” he said. “In what way?”

  “All the holding companies.”

  “When you get to be my age,” he said with a chagrined smile, “your memory isn’t always up to snuff. Help refresh it for me.”

  I briefly sketched out the Firm Ambitions corporate family. Then I asked, “Did your firm set up all those holding companies?”

  “Good question, Rachel. I don’t know. You have made me quite curious, though.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Why the elaborate corporate structure, eh?”

  “Exactly. Some of those companies predate Firm Ambitions, which tells me that there must be other investors out there.”

  He nodded pensively. “Possibly. That kind of corporate structure could have been designed for tax reasons, or perhaps for a specific regulatory purpose.”

  “Could you find that out for me? Along with the names of the investors or owners?”

  “Well, it may not be that simple. If my firm did handle the formation of the other companies, I should be able to find out the tax or regulatory purpose behind that corporate structure as early as tomorrow. But if the information you’re seeking isn’t generally available to the public, or, in the alternative, if we have an ongoing relationship with any of these entities, I may not be able to share much if anything with you.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “Try after lunch. I should know something further by then.”

  On the way out of the offices of Landau, Mitchell & McCray I stopped in the lobby to call my office. Although my secretary was already gone (it was close to six o’clock), she knows that if I’m out of the office when she goes home she is supposed to record my messages on the answering machine. There were five of them—two from opposing attorneys in lawsuits, one from a headhunter calling about “an exciting position at a large law firm” (an oxymoron), one from a court reporter (with “a couple questions about the spellings of a few names in Mr. Conrad’s deposition”), and one from my mother (with “some surprising news for you”).

  I called my mother and got her answering machine. I looked through the rest of the messages, asked myself whether I felt like returning any of the calls, answered my questions with a definite no, and headed for my car.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My mother must have been in the shower when I called from Landau, Mitchell & McCray, because when I walked in the front door she was moving around in the kitchen wearing her robe.

  “Hi, Mom.” I gave her a kiss. “So surprise me.”

  “What?”

  “Your phone message. You said you had some surprising news.”

  The microwave dinged.

  “Ah, I do. Just a sec.”

  She opened the microwave and removed a serving bowl covered with plastic wrap. I noticed the table was set for one.

  “Who’s not eating here tonight?” I asked.

  “Me,” she said. “I’m going to dinner with Maury.”

  “The judge?” I glanced down and noticed she had on stockings and low pumps.

  “Of course the judge. How many Mauries do we know? Listen, doll baby, I warmed up some pesto pasta.” She gestured toward the covered bowl. “Be careful. It’s hot. I made a nice salad for you. It’s in the fridge.”

  “Thanks. So where are you and Maury going tonight?”

  “Some sort of dinner for judges. It’s down at the Hyatt. I won’t be late.”

  “You can be late,” I said with a wink.

  She blushed. “One step at a time, please.” She checked her watch. “He’ll be here any minute. Let me tell you what I found.”

  “Okay.”

  “It runs out he wasn’t the only one dead. They’re both dead.”

  “Who are both dead?”

  “Both men.”

  “Which men?”

  “The designer and that other guy.”

  I lifted the plastic wrap off the bowl of pasta and leaned away from the steam. “Mom, what are you talking about?”

  “Don’t forget your salad. Those men who ran those companies, that’s what.”

  I looked up. “Really? How’d you find out?”

  “Just how I told you I would. I read the old newspapers on microfilm at the library. I copied the articles. They’re on the dining-room table.”

  “Great. Did you tell Benny?”

  “I put a set in his mailbox. He wasn’t there.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I said. “He has a faculty dinner meeting. He’ll be home later.”

  The doorbell rang. My mother and I looked at each other. She patted her hair. “Should I get it?” I asked as I got up.

  She hesitated and then shook her head. “I’m not sweet sixteen anymore. I’ll get it.” She loosened her robe and slipped it off. “How do I look?” she asked as I took the robe from her. She was wearing a black knit jersey dress with a pearl choker and matching earrings.

  I kissed her gently on the cheek. “Like a dream.”

  “Come on,” she said, slipping her arm around mine. “Say hi to Maury.”

  Tex Bernstein arrived bearing smiles and gifts. He had a big bouquet of flowers for my mother and a box of Bissinger chocolates for me. I noted with approval that he was freshly shaven. Tex might not be Robert Redford, but any man who takes the trouble of shaving twice in one day for his second date with your mother deserves a little slack. Even if he was one of the goofier judges in St. Louis County, Tex Bernstein was starting to worm his way into my heart. I wished them a good time and returned to the kitchen with a smile.

  ***

  The sound of munching was unmistakable, even through the telephone line.

  “Didn’t you just have dinner?” I asked Benny.

  “So?”

  “That sounds like eating to me.”

  “I am engaging in a bit of postprandial mastication in the privacy of my own apartment. I believe that that remains legal even within the reactionary confines of the Show-Me State, which, by the way, is truly the strangest state nickname in the country.”

  There was the sound of coal tumbling down a chute, and then the sound of stones inside a rock crusher.

  “Benny, what in the world are you eating?”

  “Actually, Miss Smarty-Pants Communist, you’ll be pleased to know that I happen to be consuming a high-fiber selection from one of the four basic food groups.”

&
nbsp; “Cracker Jacks?”

  “Score one for the girl with the All-World Tush. Frankly, I view some Cracker Jacks before bedtime as a special gift to my large intestine. It’s my way of saying thanks to Mr. Colon.”

  “You’re such a considerate guy.”

  “You know I’m a hopeless romantic.”

  “I know you’re hopeless. So did you read the articles?”

  “Yep.”

  I was at the kitchen table, staring at the photocopies of the two newspaper articles. The first had appeared in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch eight years ago:

  ST. LOUIS BUSINESSMAN KILLED IN

  SOUTHERN ILLINOIS HUNTING INCIDENT

  The president of a St. Louis area burglar alarm company died yesterday of a gunshot wound as a result of what Illinois officials have tentatively labeled a hunting accident. Two Belleville men on a hunting trip discovered the body of George L. McGee, president of Arch Alarm Systems of St. Charles County, yesterday afternoon in a wooded area near Cartersboro, Illinois. McGee, of Hazelwood, was 54 years old. According to Jackson County Deputy Coroner Bobby Ray Vinton, McGee had been dead for approximately twenty-four hours when his body was discovered. He was wearing hunting attire. A rifle later identified as his was found near his body. According to Cartersboro Sheriff Harvey Young, the rifle had not been fired. McGee’s automobile was discovered parked on the side of Illinois Highway 149 three miles from where his body was found. The area, located near the eastern edge of the Shawnee National Forest, has been a popular deer-hunting site for years. The preliminary autopsy report showed that McGee died as a result of massive hemorrhaging and blood loss caused by a rifle-caliber bullet that apparently entered through the back of his neck and shattered his spinal cord, according to Vinton. Sheriff Young stated that his office is treating the fatality as an accidental death. He made a plea for the person responsible for the death to come forward. “I’m sure he feels just awful,” Young stated. “But he shouldn’t be afraid. We’re not looking to press charges. We just want to talk to the man and close the books on this one.” McGee’s death marks the third time in five years that a hunter has been accidentally killed during the opening week of the deer-hunting season in southern Illinois.