by Alan Hruska
“Seeing you then? No. But you were there?”
“Yes.”
“And you were wounded,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Phil didn’t do that.”
“One of his men.”
“Who you killed.”
“Yes.”
“A gunfight,” she says, showing sudden anger, “with a five-year-old kid upstairs. Which Phil started. My father, the man who brought me there. But I lived through that, and I can live through this.”
“You remember that night?” Harvey says.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Well, your uncle is worse,” Harvey says. “By reputation—but the stories are real. And he’ll be a lot more reckless with your life than Phil was. So until we know this is over—totally over—you want to go somewhere, you drive in my car.”
When Tino arrives home from basketball practice, Sarah is in the kitchen fixing dinner. “We’re playing house,” she announces.
“We’re not playing,” he says, taking a seat at the small kitchen table. “What are you making? Is that sauce?”
“For our spaghetti.”
“You have a recipe?”
“I’m making it up,” she says. “It can’t be that hard.”
“From a can?”
“Lots of cans. Pretty much anything with tomatoes in it. Plus there’s meatballs.”
“You made meatballs?” Now he’s really surprised.
“I thought you’d like them.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll have one.”
Tino laughs. “Can I help?”
“Yeah, you can set the table.”
It turns out to be an excellent meal, which surprises them both. She says, twirling her pasta, “The secret is to make the spaghetti al dente.”
“You’re speaking Italian now?”
“I am Italian,” she says. “Half, anyway.”
Tino, soberly, says, “My mother’s coming back in a few days.”
“I know.”
“Can we do this in your apartment?”
“That would be awkward,” she says.
“So let’s get married.”
She laughs. “Make an honest woman of me?”
“Yes.” He isn’t kidding.
“I’m a sophomore in high school, Tino.”
“Yes, and?” he says with a show of emotion. “Can you think of yourself being married to anyone else?”
“No,” she says quickly, pushing aside any doubts.
“Me neither. I didn’t expect this. I’m sure you didn’t. But it’s not going to change.”
“Okay,” she says, slowing her voice, “you’re probably right. But I’m sixteen. A very mature sixteen, no question. But big decisions? We should wait a bit on that, don’t you think?”
“It would make things a lot easier if we didn’t.”
“Oh?” she says, suspicious. “You mean with your uncle?”
He says nothing.
She says, “And that’s what this is all about?”
“No!” He gives a lopsided smile. “I’m just using all the arguments I can think of.”
“That’s not a good one.”
“Sorry,” he says. “You’re right, it’s not good.”
“And he’d be disappointed, Tino. My money’s in a trust. I can’t get at it. Your uncle is just wasting his time.”
Tino reflects on that. “That’s not like Uncle Sal. He doesn’t waste time. He must know something.”
“Like what?” She’s almost indignant.
“I dunno. You couldn’t get it, even if your life was in danger?”
“And you’re suggesting what?” she says, voice now rising. “This is Sal’s plan? You know this?”
“Of course I don’t know it. It’s just how he thinks.”
“There’s nothing like that in my trust.”
“Have you read it?”
“I don’t have to read it.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk about your money,” Tino says. “I don’t want any part of it.”
“Then why are we talking about it?”
“Because Sal does. Talk about it, because he wants it. And it worries me sick, Sarah. What he would do to you to get it.”
They’ve stopped eating, and for a long time don’t talk. Finally, Sarah says, “How could you have ever thought of working for such a man?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I couldn’t now.”
“But you did. Think of working for him. You planned to do it.”
“Yes. It wasn’t real. This is real. What we have. It’s not playing house. It’s not playing at anything.”
“But it’s stopped being fun.”
“Sarah,” he says, almost pleading.
“This conversation makes it no fun.”
“I will talk to him,” Tino says, looking at her very hard. “I will tell him, he goes near you again, he loses me.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Midweek, midmorning. Cadigan Breen says on the phone, “Alec, are you sitting down?”
“Sitting, Caddy, what’s the news?”
“Well, I’m at the Mid-Atlantic Power & Light building in Richmond, Virginia, where we’ve just concluded a deal. It’s contingent on your client’s accepting it. Think you can get them to do that?”
“Might help if I knew the terms.”
“Terms, right,” Breen says. He’s in high comedy. “We drop our counterclaims. You okay with that?”
“Stop jerking around, Caddy. What’s the rest of it?”
“What was our wish, our biggest wish, for a settlement with Mid-Atlantic that wouldn’t trigger the most-favored-nations provision?”
“That it be limited to counsel fees.”
“Bigger wish.”
“That it be less than the total counsel fees?”
“Yes!” says Breen, “and that’s what we got. Contribution to counsel fees. You hear that word, contribution! Turns out ol’ Freddy was not doing this on a full contingency, after all. He was billing them right along, and so was Stash, so the bill total was gigantic. What Mid-Atlantic will take from us as a contribution to fees is one million bucks. And my client, Edison, is willing to split that very favorably with Allis-Benoit—we do $670,000, you do $330,000. In other words, your guys get out of this mess for less than a third of a million, which, against a more than $300 million exposure, is chump change. Think you can sell that, counselor?”
“Yeah, I think I can sell that. Well done, Caddy. Brilliant deal.”
“Hell, it was your idea, Alec. The whole fucking thing. Your client should be made aware of that.”
“I’ll be sure to tell ’em.”
Breen laughs, knowing the opposite will likely be true.
“The guy we need now,” Alec says, “is Marius Shilling.”
“Okay,” Breen says with a slight hesitation. “But he represents the utilities only on the standstill agreement.”
“Right. And how do we—in a few weeks—persuade 125 utilities not to sue us? Go from office to office? Not feasible. Write letters? Waste of time.”
“We need a meeting,” Breen says. “With the whole group. One hundred twenty-five companies and their lawyers. In one room. And only Marius can arrange such a meeting.”
“I’ll call him,” Alec says.
“You think he’ll go for it?”
“I think he’ll love it,” Alec says. “The thought of turning all those clients over to Harold Kohn is probably making him sick.”
Alec persuades Larry Rilesman’s secretary to pull him out of a meeting to come to the phone. When given the report, Rilesman needs a moment to consider the ramifications that really matter. “I suppose credit for this must go to Caddy Breen.”
“I guess,” Alec says noncommittally.
“But we should get some of it,” Rilesman says.
“You and I?”
“Well, yes.”
“You mean with management,” Alec says.
“Of cou
rse.”
“I could fly out right now, explain things,” Alec says without the slightest trace of taunt in his voice.
“No need, no need,” Rilesman says quickly.
“You mean, you can handle it?”
“Absolutely, Alec, no problem. No reason for you to get on a plane.”
“Of course I could do it on the phone,” Alec cannot resist saying.
“No, no,” says Rilesman, as if he were being magnanimous. “Got it covered. Rest easy and thanks for the news.”
Hanging up on the man, Alec, in his empty office, gives way to a laugh before considering what’s next and does matter, which is how he will put this development to Marius Shilling.
“What is it, Tino?” says Sal Angiapello, coming from behind his desk. “What’s so important that I have to clear the room? You can see how busy I am.”
What Tino sees are the angry faces of the three men with whom Sal had been meeting. In Lou DiBrazzi, anger is expressed as a contemptuous burr in the back of his throat, which is all the more menacing for being unspoken. As the door closes behind them in Sal’s study, Tino says, “It’s important to me, Uncle, and I hope it will be to you.”
“Let me guess,” Sal says. “It’s about the girl.”
“She has a name, Uncle.”
“Oh, yes? What is it? Anwar? That’s a made-up name. Phony, means nothing. Brno? That’s not her real name. Has nothing to do with her. Angiapello? She spits on that name, as did her father.”
“Men have been following her, Uncle.”
“I know. They’re my men. I take an interest in her. I want to give her a name.”
“She will have a new name. Our name.”
“Yes? Good.”
“You were worried it might take too long, our getting married. But it may be sooner than I had thought.”
“And my dear boy, I think you are wrong.”
“With all respect, Uncle, this is something I can know better than you.”
“That right?” The tone and smile change, and are chilling.
“We’ve actually discussed it, she and I. If you could have heard our last conversation!”
Sal turns away, seats himself behind his desk. “I did hear it.”
“You bugged my apartment?”
“Actually, Tino, it’s my apartment. Your poor father worked for me, as does your mother. As such, and as my relative, she is entitled to live in one of my apartments. And all of my apartments are equipped, shall we say, appropriately. Saves time, my knowing what my people think, their needs.”
Tino’s eyes close involuntarily as he speaks, “If anything were to happen to Sarah—”
“Stop, Tino. You do not want to be threatening me.”
“I would not do that.”
“You are doing it. With your voice,” says the older man, his own now unguarded and dangerous. “It says you would want me dead. Is that what you would want, Tino?”
“No, Uncle. But you would be dead to me.”
Alec calls Marius Shilling and is put right through. “I’d like to suggest a change in our routine.”
“Our lunch routine?” Shilling says, sounding very uneasy. “You want to meet later?”
“No, 12:30 is good. But not the Downtown. The Wall Street Club, where I can reciprocate for all those lunches you’ve bought me.”
“I’m also a member of the Wall Street.”
“I know. But this time, I’ll pay.”
“Why?
“As I said.”
“I heard you, I don’t believe it, and I already don’t like it.”
Alec laughs. “You will.”
“I’m hearing rumors, Alec, and I tell you, I don’t like them. You will need something very comforting to tell me.”
“We’re having an adventure, Marius, and it will turn out well. Trust me.”
They got the same corner table at which Alec had hosted Henry Lowenberg. Shilling was not nearly as impressed with the corner location, or as expansive in his personality, though in the glare of the sun his blue eyes, and dueling scars, glistened. “What’s going on, Alec? Have you settled with Mid-Atlantic Power & Light? Because if that’s happened, I should have known about it the second the papers were signed. It’s already too late to be telling me this.”
“You see, Marius, my respect for you is even greater than that. I give notice to you even before the event. We will be settling. The papers have not been signed. They have not even been drafted.”
“Ah,” Shilling says, settling down. “So this is why you want to buy me lunch. Sorry, dear friend, you are wasting your money. When you settle with Mid-Atlantic, you will trigger the most-favored-nations provision of the standstill agreement. I’m afraid I will not be representing the utilities on that. Harold Kohn will. Even though it should be a rather cut-and-dried matter. Say you pay Mid-Atlantic 10 mil, which represents 10 percent of its purchases from you. You owe every other utility in the country 10 percent of its purchases. That’s what the MFN says. That’s how it will be done—by you, or by a court.”
“Not in this case,” Alec says bluntly.
“What do you mean? You said you were settling.”
“Not for damages. They are dropping the case for a fraction of their counsel fees.”
“What?”
“You heard it.”
“Counsel fees?” Shilling expostulates. “You got them to cave for counsel fees?”
“A portion of their counsel fees.”
“How much?” Shilling asks, now suspicious.
“For my client, $330,000.”
“That’s unbelievable.”
“It’s the fact.”
“And Edison Electric?”
“Slightly more than double.”
“So for a measly million dollars the two biggest manufacturers in the world of heavy electrical equipment get rid of a suit claiming 300 million? How the hell did you do this, Alec? Was it your counterclaim? Were they actually afraid of that unprovable assertion?”
“You’ll have to ask them.”
“Oh, yes!” Shilling says. “Ask Donald Strand? Very amusing.”
“No doubt they finally realized they were pouring money into a losing case.”
“Hmm, hmm,” Shilling says, nodding his head while thinking. “It must be the counterclaim. It stood in Strand’s way. Now he can continue his plan to engulf and devour. Very clever, Alec. But what do you need from me?”
“A meeting. I want you to bring them all in. Early next week.”
“Just like that?”
“Why not? They have something better to do?”
“Alec! We are talking about bringing to New York on short notice 125 utility companies! Executives, house counsel, outside trial lawyers. The logistics alone are staggering.”
“And if they all went outside in the rain, what would they do? Put their umbrellas up, right? This is the same thing. Send them all telegrams. Tell them where they have to be, when, and why this is a meeting they’d be fools to miss. They’ll come. They’ll know they have to.”
“And where will you put them? For this meeting?”
“You’ll rent a ballroom at one of the big hotels.”
“I’ll rent?”
“They’re your clients, Marius. They’ll feel more comfortable in your room.”
“And what?” Shilling says. “You hope to talk them all out of suing you? And bring down upon their heads the wrath of their public utility commissions? Are you dreaming?”
“Just get them here, Marius. They will bless you for it, I promise you. And they’ll love to have an excuse for coming to New York on the company dime.”
“What arguments could you possibly make to them?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“You’ll what?”
Alec smiles with the self-assurance he wishes he felt. “Don’t worry. The reasons will convince them. You bring them to this meeting, and not one of them will sue. And you and I will not have to watch Harold Kohn bill the uti
lities industry for the next five to ten years.”
“And based on that,” Shilling says, “based on your ‘I’ll think of something,’ I should arrange this huge meeting? You realize, if it’s a dud, Alec, they will blame me.”
“Have I ever failed you, Marius?”
“Ah, we’re down to that.”
“We are.”
Shilling blows out his copious cheeks. “You’re asking a lot. And giving very little.”
“Lunch?” Alec says.
“That’s not funny.”
“You will thank me, Marius. I give you my word.”
Again the inflated cheeks. “I don’t know, Alec, I really don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Because time is running out, and this is the only thing to do with it that makes the slightest bit of sense.”
Shilling picks up the menu and pretends to study it. “What’s good in this place now? I haven’t been here for years.”
Alec and Jesse are in bed. She has just finished reading The Bell Jar, puts it on her night table, and picks up Jane Goodall’s In the Shadow of Man. He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, with Rabbit Redux on his stomach.
She lowers Jane and says, “Updike not doing it for you?”
“Not this one, anyway.”
“You liked Rabbit when he was running.”
“I did. Not as much now.”
“So you wanna talk?”
“With you, Jesse, always.”
“Updike is a contemporary of yours,” she says. “Do you know him?”
“No,” he says. “Different schools. He was at Harvard.”
“What about Sylvia Plath? She was at Smith when you were at Yale.”
“How did you know that?”
“I figured it out,” she says. “It wasn’t hard.”
“You looked at her bio and me and thought, wonder if those two bumped into each other? On one of his reconnaissance missions, maybe, to Northampton?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“In point of fact,” Alec says, “she and I once double dated—she with the bad Yalie from The Bell Jar, who wasn’t actually so bad, and me with another young woman from Smith. We went, as I recall, to a truly awful movie in New Haven. Sylvia was pissed off at this guy and not easy to talk to. What a missed opportunity, right? But she gave no signs that night of being a genius. And of course, then, who knew?”