by Alan Hruska
The Wall Street Club was once an exclusive and all-male association, limited to those of fortune and social rank. As a result, through the years its membership dwindled to an unsustainable level. Its demise became imminent at about the same time Chase Manhattan Bank began planning the erection of One Chase Manhattan Plaza, a few blocks uptown. So the club moved to the Plaza, took on new members liberally, including women, and, like several other downtown establishments, no longer operated on the street for which it was named.
Alec invited Henry Lowenberg to join him there for lunch. He thought Henry might appreciate the view, which, from the fifty-ninth floor of One Chase, is like a picture map of Manhattan. Emerging from the elevator, Henry turns out to be a jovial man of large frame and features—especially his ears—and silver hair with a ridged-ladder pompadour. Yet he’s vigorous in his gestures, firm in his handshake, and unreservedly proud that he looks younger than he is. Almost the first thing he says to Alec is, “You know, I’m seventy-six.”
They take a corner table, from which the view is particularly grand, and Alec suggests that Henry order the oysters and Dover sole, which is the daily special. They are served fairly rapidly, but Henry is not to be rushed. He seems to be enjoying the surroundings and the opportunity. Alec is, after all, a captive audience, and Henry has an unending supply of what trial lawyers call “war stories”—revisionist histories of trials they have won. After the eighth or ninth such epic, Alec says, “Henry, even these brief accounts of your victories give me a brilliant idea. You’ve had a fabulous career. People should know about it. And at your age, prosecuting a libel suit? Waste of time! You should write a book! And I happen to know a company that will publish that book. In fact, I know someone who will help you write it.”
It took but a moment for Henry’s eyes to gleam. “You could make that happen?”
“Not, of course, with a libel suit hanging over our heads.”
“Of course.” Henry spreads his hands magnanimously.
“So what do you say?” Alec asks.
“I have a title. Just thought of it. Until Proven Guilty!”
“Sounds great.”
“Published by your client?”
“That’s the thought I had, yes.”
“As told to Robin Moore?”
“The very man I had in mind,” Alec says. “We have a deal?”
“How many copies?”
“Well, for a first printing—”
“I represent the pipefitters’ union,” Henry interjects. “Every member will be required to buy a copy of the book. And there are 10,000 members.”
“In that case—”
“A minimum of 12,000 copies,” Henry insists.
“Which I’ll take to my clients with a strong recommendation.”
“It’s win-win for you guys.”
“Henry,” says Alec. “I’ll even arrange for you to throw your book party right here.”
On his way home that night, at barely past eight, Alec realizes, after a few minutes of unaccustomed silence, that Schlomo, apparently deep in thought, is totally ignoring him. I really don’t know this man, Alec thinks. But, of course, how well do I know anyone, including myself? Which makes him realize he can’t even track his own thoughts. The person he’s actually thinking about is Jesse—subliminally, because he wants to see her. Another person for whom he cares—and knows so little about.
From the scraps of information Carrie revealed, she and her sister were locked, from early childhood, in a sibling rivalry that left wounds, mainly on Jesse. Carrie was better looking, taller, more popular, far more skilled at dance and sports. The victim now, however, is Alec—at least that’s what he thinks. He’d like to say, We are no longer children. And Carrie is dead. There is no “best” at anything now, between her and you. I certainly don’t make such comparisons. What I think about now is wanting to be with you. It’s not a small feeling. And it’s not secondary to anything. He believes,in fact, he has said almost that. And it’s not getting them where they need to be.
When Alec finally arrives home, Sarah is still doing homework, but Jesse is waiting with a hot pan and eggs. “Not much variety,” she says.
“You know you don’t have to do this at all,” Alec says.
“I want to hear about Tino. What did he say?”
“Couldn’t come in. Game day.”
“So when will you talk to him?”
“Tomorrow. On my way to the airport. I’ve got a nine o’clock flight to Chicago.”
“You’re going to drag him out to JFK?”
“LaGuardia,” he says. “And Schlomo will pick him up and return him to school.”
“Schlomo?”
“A car service guy who usually takes me.”
“You mean your driver.”
“Well, he drives a lot of people, not just me.”
She breaks two eggs in a bowl.
Alec says, “You building a case again?”
“No,” she says quickly. “How’d your lunch go with Henry Lowenberg?”
So he tells her, whole story: buildup, Alec’s offer; Lowenberg’s demand for a large print run.
“And did Telemarch buy that?”
“In ten seconds,” he says.
“What took them so long?”
“Their general counsel is a very deliberate man.”
“What about Robin Moore?”
“He wasn’t so easy to sell. Which is understandable. Burden falls on him. He’ll have to write the book. Probably from scratch.”
“But you got him to agree?” she asks.
“I asked him how long it would take him. He said two weeks. I told him he’d spend twice that at depositions and trial, but this way avoid the stigma. For a writer of nonfiction, just to be sued for libel on grounds of falsity—not great for the reputation.”
“So he agreed to do it—to write Henry’s book?”
“You’re calling him Henry already.”
“I’m on his side!” Jesse says. “He’s a seventy-six-year-old epileptic, for God’s sake.”
Alec laughs. “Robin starts tomorrow.”
She whips the eggs in the bowl, then looks at him. “You’re not so bad at this, lawyering. Maybe you should stick to it after all.”
“Thank you,” Alec says. “But what you should know? If I can’t end the Allis-Benoit case soon and help get rid of the case against U.S. Computer Corp., the next ten years will be a living hell—for me, and anyone close.”
“How close?” she says, beating the eggs more vigorously.
“Small group. Only two people.”
“Your daughter and father.”
“Sam?” Alec laughs. “He gave me up years ago.”
“Then, Alec,” she says. “Your group seems to be smaller than you think.”
She tosses the eggs in the pan, and they both listen to them sizzle. In less than a minute, she flips the omelet onto a plate and hands it to him. “Thanks,” he says.
“Don’t mention it.” She cracks another two eggs in the bowl, starts whipping them.
“This is great,” he says.
“Yeah,” she says, splashing her own eggs into the pan.
“So how’d you spend your day?”
“Oh, the usual,” she says. “Cleaned myself up in the hopes of impressing somebody. Studied the trades in the hopes of finding someone to impress.”
“The ‘trades’ meaning the trade papers in the film industry?”
“Yep. Those.”
“And did you? Find anyone?”
“Well, y’know,” she says, “you get to the point where you’ll try anything. Anything that looks even halfway promising.”
“You knock on doors?”
“Yes, you do.”
“And find? Anyone interested in your manifest talent?”
“My talent? No.” She plates her omelet and starts eating. “Not for filmmaking, anyway.”
Alec watches her stab at her egg. He says, “You will succeed at this, Jess.”
/> “Oh, yes?” she says. “Maybe one of these days.”
“I know what an assistant director, an AD does,” he says. “You basically run the crew, the set, even the actors, getting ready for every take. Whatever has to happen before the director says ‘Action,’ you make happen. As well as schedule the whole shoot. I know you, Jess, better than you think. And I know you’ve got everything it takes to be damn good at this.”
“Oh, yeah? How come—in the infinitesimal time we’ve had together—you know me so well?”
“Because we are close, Jess. Maybe—one of these days—you’ll admit that.”
TWENTY
Tino is already in the backseat when Alec piles in. “Thanks, Schlomo,” Alec says. “Now close the glass.”
It shuts; no back talk. Schlomo is used to this; he has the only sedan in the fleet with a closable partition. But Tino looks doubtful about its effect.
“Believe me,” Alec says. “It’s okay. He hears nothing, and doesn’t care. It’s part of his business.”
They’re already turning onto Ninety-Sixth Street, heading for the FDR Drive.
Tino gives a lip press and a nod. “I don’t have anything for sure to tell you. But I promised, if I saw anything, I’d let you know. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“Okay, Tino, what did you see?”
“He said all the right things, like ‘We’ll wait, be patient,’ but the way he said them….”
“You’re talking about your uncle, and you suspect he meant the opposite?”
“I don’t know!” Tino says. “But yes, I suspect it. It’s not like him to wait.”
“So what’s his move?” Alec asks. “What are the possibilities?”
Tino’s face loses all color. He’s definitely not comfortable with this conversation. “He might grab her. Have one of his men do it.”
“Names?”
“There was a guy there that night. Lou DiBrazzi.”
“You have other names?”
“Not in my head. I can get them.”
“Any other reason to think it might be DiBrazzi? Other than the fact he was there that night?”
“He’s the scariest.”
“I see.” Alec looks out the window. They’re speeding over the Triboro Bridge, and the morning sun shimmers on the river below. “If they were to kidnap her, where would they be likely to take her?”
Tino shakes his head. “I don’t know. The island, maybe.”
“Your uncle’s island?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
“Marry her to someone he can trust.”
“And after that?”
Tino looks sick.
“Right. At that stage, no reason to keep her alive.”
“Can you do something?” The boy now is desperate.
“Yes,” Alec says. “I will do something.”
“Should we tell her?”
“Not yet. Do you have any sense about how fast this might happen?”
“It won’t happen this month,” Tino says.
“You know this?”
“It’s a holy month.”
“For whom?”
“Do you know about my uncle’s religion?”
“Yes, I’ve heard. He takes that seriously?”
Tino laughs. “They all do.”
“But not you?”
“Right now, there’s only one thing I take seriously. Protecting Sarah.”
“Good, Tino,” Alec says. “Because her life is now dependent on you.”
Alec meets his senior associate, Trevor Joffrey, at the American Airlines gate. It’s sunny as they take off, but O’Hare, on landing, is cloudy and bleak. Their cab driver knows a shortcut through blighted streets and soon deposits them at their destination. The University of Chicago campus sits like a pile of gray stones under a grim sky in a desolate neighborhood.
They make their way directly to George Stigler’s office. Trevor, Stigler’s former student, had been there often.
Stigler pours them cups of bitter coffee, then repeats the admonition he delivered on the phone. “You’re wasting your time, coming out here.”
“Give us the few minutes we asked for,” Alec says. “Then it won’t be a waste.”
Stigler frowns, taking a seat behind a cluttered oak desk. It’s as if he had said, A few minutes is all I agreed to.
“Okay, first fact.” Alec sits on the edge of a table supporting large stacks of papers. “Mid-Atlantic Power has retained Mason Scott.”
“He’s an idiot,” Stigler says.
“No doubt. But he is a professor emeritus at Harvard. And he writes that Edison’s publication of its price book was a deliberate offer of a price fix and would have been so understood by Allis-Benoit. Because, he says, it’s widely understood that price competition cannot occur in an oligopolistic market, unless prices are kept utterly secret. Of course, the heavy-electrical-equipment market is not simply oligopolistic; it’s a duopoly, occupied as it is by only two sellers. In that situation, Scott says, price secrecy is even more important as a means of generating price competition.”
“The opposite is true,” Stigler says. “In the first place, price secrecy is a myth. No way customers don’t blab. In the second place, disclosure of prices is what promotes competition, not what suppresses it. One seller learns of the other guy’s price, and he shaves it if he wants the business. He might cut it outright or, more likely, try to keep the cut secret by offering better terms under the table, free goods, delayed payment at low interest, or zero interest, whatever it takes. And he tells the buyer to keep it secret. At which the buyer laughs. Not in his interest. What is in his interest is to go back to the first seller, tell him of the better offer he just got, and try to get terms even lower. So competition gets more intense. That’s reality.”
“As you will therefore expect,” Alec says, “that’s also our view of reality, that’s how Allis-Benoit acted, and that’s our defense. Problem is, the jury’s not likely to believe it, unless it’s fed to them by an expert who can trump Mason Scott. In which case, this country will be left with one manufacturer of heavy electrical equipment, and many thousands of unemployed workers. That’s not my imagination. Without an expert of your stature in this case, that’s the highly predictable result of this litigation. And the fact is, there is no expert of your stature for this case other than yourself.”
Stigler drinks his own coffee, apparently with pleasure. “You can find ten other professors emeritus at very good schools. They’re a dime a dozen.”
“Problem there,” Alec says, “they’ve already taken the dime. So has Scott, to be sure, but there’s only one economist in this country more highly regarded than Scott and has also, as a matter of principle, never testified before.”
Stigler does not look persuaded.
Alec says, “I have bound galleys here from the Harvard University Press. Will be published in two months.” Trevor Joffrey pulls the volume out of his attaché case. A colorful bookmark sticks out from its middle pages.
Stigler looks interested despite himself. “Scott’s new tome, you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you get that?” Stigler asks.
“Guy I know. Business writer for Telemarch News.”
“And?”
“I’ll leave it with you,” Alec says. “I have another copy.”
“Just show me the goddamn page you’ve got marked there.” Trevor lays the book on Stigler’s desk. The professor scans the highlighted paragraphs and looks up. “What do you think, Trevor? You haven’t said anything.”
Trevor, seated in the one comfortable chair in the room, makes a show of considering the question. “I think you’ve already decided to do it, Professor. Scott’s theory—which Mid-Atlantic relies on in this case—makes a mockery of everything you’ve written on the subject. Allowing the courts to adopt it and put all those people out of work? I don’t really see you letting that happen. Especially since he names you as the prin
cipal author of the opposing point of view.”
Stigler laughs, then says to Alec, “You ought to make this man partner.”
“We’re both hoping, Professor, there’s a law firm left after this case that he can become a partner in.”
“All right, all right,” Stigler says. “Get out of here, both of you. You’ve used up your ‘few minutes.’ ”
Trevor says, “We’ll just leave these court papers for you to read in your spare time.”
“Ha!” Stigler says. “I had none of that before you walked in here. What do you think I’ve got now?”
Alec arrives home to a dark apartment. In the hallway to the bedrooms, he hears Sarah breathing, then Jesse, both asleep.
He closes the door to the kitchen and calls his researcher, Harvey Grand.
“Yes?” says a deep voice, as if impersonating someone who might be genuinely interested. It’s the way Harvey answers the phone at two in the morning.
“You were awake?”
“I sleep alternate nights now. What’s up?”
“There’s a risk, I think serious, that Sal Angiapello is planning to kidnap my daughter.”
After a pause, Harvey says, “Here we go again.”
“This might be worse than last time.”
“You got leverage?” Harvey asks. “Something to scare him with—or someone inside?”
“The latter. Sal’s nephew. He’s fond of Sarah, and the source for what I know. But he’s not likely to learn anything more beforehand.”
“No leverage,” says Harvey unhappily.
“Nothing that would work. Not on this guy.”
“Then we need a tail,” Harvey says. “On her.”
“She’d spot it.”
“Then tell her.”
“She’d scream.”
“Then I’ll tail her myself. She won’t spot me.”
“You’re kidding,” Alec says. “She’d spot you in a stadium. From the other side of the field.”
Jesse comes into the kitchen: tousled hair, dark blue PJs, bare feet. Harvey is talking, but Alec is not now listening. She says, rubbing her eyes, “Who you talking to?”
Harvey says, “Is someone there, Alec?”