The Inglorious Arts

by Alan Hruska

  “Observant,” Alec says with approval. “And smart. If you’re also honest, Tino, we’ll get along great.”

  Walking briskly down Madison Avenue later that night, Sarah asks, “Aren’t you freezing?”

  Tino huddles in his sport jacket, regretting not wearing an overcoat. “Why, you wanna keep me warm?”

  Sarah stops short, making Tino pull up to face her.

  “What’s wrong?” he says.

  “Don’t talk like that,” she says. “Not to me.”

  “Hey. Just a joke.”

  “Right. Smarmy joke. The kind said by nervous boys. To girls they want to make out with.”

  “You keep telling me I’m nervous!”

  “Because you are! So am I. But it’s not going to happen yet. I told you.”

  She resumes walking and he follows. “It was that dinner,” he says.

  “It made you smarmy?”

  “Nervous, anyway. You too; I saw.”

  She nods, and says, “Yeah,” and they walk two blocks in chilly silence. Until they come to Ninety-Fourth Street, across the street from the façade of the Madison Avenue Armory.

  “What the hell’s that?” Tino says. “They ripped that old armory out? I used to go to drills there when I was a kid.”

  “No!” she says. “You were in the Knickerbocker Greys?”

  “So you know about that?”

  “How the hell’d you land there?”

  He shrugs. “Uncle Sal.”

  “It’s meant for Upper East Side ninnies.”

  “Hey,” he says. “I was ten. I went where they sent me.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I know about that.”

  “But what about this façade?”

  “Huge neighborhood hoo-ha,” she says. “Some people wanted to keep the whole building. Some wanted to tear it all down. This wall is the stupid compromise. Now all the druggies hang out behind it.”

  “So we’re gonna cross,” he says, leading her to the other side of Madison, walking fast.

  “So where we going?” she says, maintaining the pace.

  “Dunno,” he says. “Nothing much up here. Except the Soup Burg.”

  “No way.”

  “I’d invite you to my apartment, but my mom’s there.”

  “And what?” she says. “You don’t want me to meet your mom?”

  “I do, but now? Spring you on her? She’d kill me.”

  Sarah laughs. “We could go to the Carlyle. Listen to George Feyer. Have you ever been?”

  “It’s a pretty fancy place.”

  “I’ve got some money,” she says.

  “I’ve got plenty of money,” he says.

  “Uncle Sal? Seduction money?”

  He laughs. “Well, we might as well use it.”

  It’s still early, so there’s no trouble getting a table. The maître d’ gives a bit of a look, but he’s used to Upper East Side rich kids playing grown-up and seats them not unfavorably near the piano.

  George Feyer has just started a set, and his delicate chords dissolve in the blue light and low chatter of the room. Tino orders a Coke, and Sarah, more sophisticatedly, an iced tea.

  Tino says, looking around, “We’re kind of underdressed here.” All the men are wearing ties; the women, evening dresses.

  “Perfect,” she says. “It shows how important we are.”

  “Are we?” Tino says with a laugh.

  “Absolutely. We’re young, got everything to look forward to. We just survived an inquisition. In fact, Alec kind of likes you, I think.”

  “He said?”

  “I could tell.”

  “You’re pretty close, you and Alec.”

  “Very.”

  “Do you remember your—”

  “Phil? Yes.”

  “You know what happened… how Phil…?”

  “I was there.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “I didn’t see anything. I was five years old and under the bed. But I heard it. And you want to know how I can be so close with the man who killed my natural father.”

  “No, Sarah. I wasn’t going to ask that.”

  “You’re just thinking it.”

  He says nothing.

  “Did you ever meet him?” she says. “Phil?”

  “I did, actually.”

  “And what was your impression?”

  “I was six. My memory of him? It’s really just a shadow.”

  “He beat my mom. He did it often. I saw what she looked like afterward. No one gets a pass for that.”

  “I agree.”

  Their drinks arrive. Sarah puts sugar in her tea. Tino sips his Coke. They listen to the music.

  Sarah says, “Do you have that in you, Tino?”

  “What?” he says, quickly lowering his glass and splashing soda on the table. “Beating up a woman? How can you even ask me that?”

  She shrugs. “I mean that kind of violence.”

  “He was your father,” Tino says.

  “Maybe we’re equally prone.” Her eyes widen and catch a glint of the beam meant for Feyer. “Being children of mobsters!” she says, her voice rising. “In the blood, right? So together? Pretty explosive potential.”

  Alec and Jesse stand at adjoining sinks, rinsing dishes and racking them in the dishwasher. Alec squirts in some detergent, closes the door, starts the machine, and looks at her.

  “What?” she says.

  “Nothing. Want a drink? Some more coffee?”

  “What was that look, Alec?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Brandy? I could make stingers. I have crème de menthe.”

  “I ought to be going,” she says.

  “Ought to be? He’s waiting up, is he? Stashinsky?”

  “Okay, Alec, stop that.”

  He squares his stance. “You have a better job waiting for you here, Jess. You were looking at it, tonight.”

  “So you do want me to spy on your daughter,” she says.

  “No,” he says. “I don’t. I want you to make sure she doesn’t take dangerous risks.”

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  “Yes. And I’m not very good at it. I need help.”

  “I’ll spend more time with her,” she says and turns to leave.

  Alec follows her to the main hallway, but not happily. “One drink,” he says. “Won’t kill you.”

  “You see why I shouldn’t be living here.”

  “If you were living here, I wouldn’t worry every five minutes that you’d fly off.”

  She heaves a sigh. “Brandy.”

  Alec leads the way into the living room, where he finds a bottle and two snifters in the liquor cabinet and pours their drinks. They sit on side chairs at opposing ends of the sofa.

  Alec raises his glass, Jesse hers; no toast, they drink.

  “Why do you think she’s in danger?” Jesse asks, swinging her legs up under her on the chair. “I know you told me that Tino is the nephew of Sal Angiapello and was sent by him to befriend her. But that doesn’t necessarily mean a threat. She is a member of their family.”

  “It’s hardly a normal family, Jess.”

  “No, it’s not normal. But it’s not as abnormal as it was. Isn’t that right?”

  Alec gives a sour expression. “You never knew Phil.”

  “I was told what he did to Carrie. And tried to do to you.”

  “Sal’s worse. More powerful. More destructive. More sick.”

  “How do you know this?” she says, not entirely believing it.

  “He’s an infamous arms dealer, drug dealer, real estate magnate—which, given his business methods, is also a murderous occupation.”

  “So why isn’t he in prison?” she asks, her feet coming down to the floor.

  “He probably will be. Eventually. There must be hundreds of people working to put him there.”

  She looks perplexed. “Tino seems… okay, really. Another kid.”

  “And if he is what he seems,” Alec says, “he could be a very good frien
d to us all. If not….”

  Her face pinches. “Sarah, I think, really likes him.”

  “Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” she says.

  “As it is,” he says, smiling, “with you… and me.”

  She puts her drink down. “As is the reason I should leave right now.”

  “This disturbs you? Our sitting here? Just talking?”

  “It’s the subject.”

  “So change it,” he says.

  “Okay,” she says boldly. “The Paris Peace Accords were signed last month. Do you approve?” She fixes him with a fierce look, which only draws his smile.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “It was a horrendous war that caused unforgivable suffering.”

  “How come you weren’t in it?”

  “I was too old. They didn’t draft me and wouldn’t have wanted me.”

  “Would you have wanted them?”

  “Wanted?” he says. “Well, that’s a harder question. But if I had been drafted, I’d probably still be in the stockades.”

  “Because you don’t like taking orders?”

  He laughs. “Is that why you chose this subject?” he says. “To make that point?”

  “Hardly,” she says. “You just fell into it. But I’m not averse to finding out more about you.”

  He spreads his hands in a show of openness.

  “You don’t fool me,” she says. “I’m sure you’d rather be cross-examining people than answering questions yourself.”

  “Depends on who’s asking the questions and why.”

  “You think I have an ulterior motive?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Do you?”

  “You do suspect me!”

  “Of what?” he asks, as if totally blameless of any such charge.

  “You think I’m looking for more reasons not to move in here? I already have enough reasons.”

  “Yes. I know that’s what you think. Ask your questions.”

  “Very well,” she says. “What do you like doing? Besides cross-examining people.”

  “Lots of things,” he says.

  “Yeah, like what? You like movies?”

  “Good ones, sure. Love ’em.”

  “Have you seen Last Tango in Paris?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But you plan to?”

  “If you’ll come with me,” he says.

  “You’re afraid of going alone?”

  He can’t help laughing again. “I’d just like your company.”

  “The film,” she says, “is about a depressed middle-aged American man who seduces a young French woman into having anal sex. They do it with butter.”

  “And you’re asking me whether I find that plotline appealing?”

  “Yes,” she says with a straight face.

  “I’d have to see the woman,” he says.

  She laughs out loud, and he moves to the sofa. “You should stay on the chair,” she says.

  “You’re actually afraid of me?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “You could simply trust me,” he says. They’re almost touching knees.

  “To do what?” she says, moving away. “Make me fall in love with you?”

  “Might turn out well.”

  She gets to her feet. “Okay, Alec!”

  “I want us to know each other,” he says, not moving.

  “Biblically,” she says.

  “Not tonight,” he says.

  “What’s wrong with tonight?” she says ironically.

  “That might be rushing things,” he says, rising to face her.

  She blows out her cheeks and heads toward the front hallway. “We wouldn’t want to do that!”

  “You think I am rushing things?”

  “Ha!” she says, and yanks her coat out of the hall closet.

  Helping her with it, Alec says, “You’ll think about this?”

  “I will try very hard not to,” she says, and goes into the elevator hall.

  “Great.” In a down tone.

  She punches the elevator button too hard and hurts her thumb. “What’s so great about it?”

  “The ridiculousness of our situation.”

  “What’s ridiculous,” she says, “is your standing there watching me wait for an elevator.”

  “Goodnight, Jess,” he says, shutting the door between them.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that!” she says with exasperation.

  He opens it. They exchange helpless looks. The elevator arrives, and she gets on with a departing grimace in his direction.

  THIRTEEN

  The large conference room at Kendall Blake is narrow and long, with one table dominating the length of the room. Windows on the long wall offer a northern view of three boroughs. Depositions of men such as Donald Strand are normally conducted here, more for the number of chairs than the prominence of the deponent. CEOs at his level do not arrive without entourage.

  Alec is called when the court reporter, Manny Seifert, checks in at reception. Alec brings the man to the conference room and helps set him up at one end of the table. Manny is an old pro, bearded, bespectacled, chubby, and fussy, with fat little hands that flash over keys with the finger dexterity of a concert pianist. He’s employed by the reporting service of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York, which is the federal trial court in Manhattan. Alec and he have been through many depositions together and several trials. This morning’s experience they expect to be different.

  Donald Strand is known for using the court as a weapon. If he had his way, the nation’s legal system would be bent more specifically to his needs. Opposing litigants fear him; lawyers fear him, even those on his side. Mid-Atlantic Power & Light has not won every case it has brought, but the ranks of the most prestigious associations of lawyers are littered with those who have fallen on his sword.

  Cadigan Breen arrives early with his team of young lawyers, who start unpacking their files on the opposite end of the table. Caddy pulls Alec toward the windows. “Let’s review this for a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  “You told the judge you weren’t fishing for a counterclaim.”

  “What I said,” Alec notes, “is that I would file a counterclaim if Strand were so kind to provide the grounds.”

  “Fair enough,” Breen says, “but let me ask you this. Is there any realistic possibility of getting Strand to admit the elements of such a claim, attempt to monopolize?”

  “What are the elements,” Alec says, “according to the most famous judge in the history of our federal Court of Appeals?”

  “Learned Hand,” Breen says. “In Alcoa.” He puts the flat of his hand against the window. “Attempt consists of the intent to monopolize, while coming ‘dangerously close’ by acts that are ‘not honestly industrial.’ ”

  “And to know if someone’s come dangerously close to monopolizing, you have to know what a monopoly is. So what is it?”

  “Power over price.”

  “Right,” Alec says. “So how do you know when Donald Strand has such power?”

  “When he can buy anything he wants at the lowest possible figure.”

  “Which is zero?”

  “No. Of course not.” Breen sits on the window ledge. “It’s the lowest price at which the manufacturer can sell and still, barely, stay in business.”

  “His subsistence level, right. And how does Strand squeeze his suppliers that much?”

  “Obviously, by exerting the buying power that he continually tries to increase.”

  “By means that are not honestly industrial,” says Alec. “Such as acquisitions of other utilities. With the intent ultimately to dictate the price at which he buys anything—especially anything that can be sold only to utilities. Such as heavy electrical equipment.”

  “Our counterclaim,” Breen says without conviction. “Which, as I said, is almost impossible to win.”

  “We don’t have to win it, Caddy. At least not now.
We just have to develop the basis for pleading it.” Alec glances over the room to see the younger lawyers of both teams still setting up, studiously ignoring them. “Tell me this. If your client had to comply with Mid-Atlantic’s discovery demands as written, what’s the burden?”

  “Fifty depositions and about 10 million documents.”

  “We’re facing about the same,” Alec says. “They get even half of what they’ve asked for, it’s a license to inflict pain. Which is the real purpose of their discovery demands. And as matters now stand, in defense of a price-fixing charge—”

  “We have little basis for any discovery of them, except on damages.”

  “So this morning,” Alec says, “we ask Donald Strand to hand us the basis for serving on him a set of discovery demands that match the hurt he’s putting on us.”

  “Discovery in support of our counterclaim. Once we get leave to plead it. Great,” Breen says. “Something to trade with. Reduce the pain. Get down to essentials. Okay, what else do you have up that sleeve of yours?”

  “Whatever he’s willing to give us, Caddy.”

  “Terrific. So let’s get back to reality. This witness. Who’s probably the most experienced fucking witness in the country. How the hell you going to get him to say anything we need?”

  Alec shrugs. “He’s also a notorious hot-tempered bully. So let’s piss him off first, and see what happens.”

  On cue, at the appointed hour, Strand arrives with his subordinates and lawyers, including Musselman and Stash. A white-haired, pink-faced man of little more than medium height, Strand strides in with a thrust in a Saville Row suit, ignoring Caddy, greeting Alec curtly, and taking his seat across from him and catty-corner to Manny’s machine. Without further words, he signals his readiness to be sworn in. Alec waits for Frederick Musselman, Karol Stash, and their staffs to be seated, then signals Manny to administer the oath.

  Set piece: Lawyers snap to attention. Makes Alec think of his first deposition. Ben Braddock was conducting. As the swearing-in ended, Alec felt a poke in his side and heard a rasp in his ear: “You don’t look away, Brno, you don’t shuffle papers. You watch! Get it?”

  “It’s the God part,” Alec said later.

  “You’re a heathen,” said Braddock. “Great. Shows you’re smart enough to know it’s symbolic. So when a witness gets sworn, where’re your eyes?”