The Inglorious Arts

by Alan Hruska

  Jesse thinks about that for a moment and says, “How about you?”

  “Never in danger of being mistaken for a genius.”

  “I’m talking about being you, what was that like during all those years before we met?”

  He shrugs. “You know what I’ve been doing the past dozen years. Well, I did a lot of the same sort of thing when I first came to work. Before that, college and law school, and before that, I grew up in Queens. Near the ocean. And you know that too.”

  “I don’t know what it was like,” she says. “How you felt about it. What was important to you?”

  “I was a kid,” he says. “Having fun was important.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  “At what age?”

  “Nine, ten?”

  “You really want to know this?”

  “I do,” she says.

  “All right,” he says, scrunching up to a sitting position. “At that age, it was mostly sports. But my big day? Catch a subway into Manhattan with a couple of friends. Take in the early show at the Paramount, the Roxy, or another one of those movie palaces. Great films for a ten-year-old. Plus a stage show. Sinatra, with those screaming bobbysoxers, Martin and Lewis, plenty of dancers, comics. Old vaudevillians like Smith and Dale. Big bands, Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, Harry James. Then lunch at the Horn & Hardart. Or splurge at McGinnis, which was next to the Roxy. Hot roast beef sandwiches on a bun. Wedge of strawberry shortcake ten inches high. Absolute heaven. Then the Seventh Avenue up to the Polo Grounds for a Giants doubleheader, getting home around 9 o’clock.”

  “Good God,” she says. “Just you and a couple of friends? Roaming the city with no adult?”

  “In those days, sure. Didn’t you?”

  “When I was sixteen, maybe. When most of the stuff you’re talking about was gone.”

  They lay back in silence. After a moment, she says, “You know about me, what I’ve told you, what Carrie no doubt told you. Generally, I’m not the warmest of persons. To have feelings about people, I have to know them a long time, know things about them, what their values are, how they react to stress, to affection. But you? I knew absolutely nothing about you when we met, and in seconds I was flushed in the face. Do you remember? And it wasn’t anything you did or said that was especially clever.”

  “I don’t think I did or said much of anything.”

  “That’s my goddamn point, Alec!” she says, pounding him in the arm. “It was very upsetting.”

  “Are you still upset?”

  She takes a moment before answering. “Not as much,” she says with a smile.

  He decides to leave that alone, and asks, “So what did you love doing as a kid?”

  “I was horse mad. A few blocks away was a livery stable that gave lessons. I worked for them in exchange for two lessons a week.”

  “Trail riding? Jumping? Dressage?”

  “All of it,” she says. “I wasn’t great, but I loved it.”

  “Still?”

  “Oh, yeah! I rode lots in Ireland.”

  “So when we’re married, maybe we’ll buy a horse farm upstate?”

  Long silence.

  “Jesse?” he says.

  “Did you just propose to me?”

  “I thought that was a given.”

  “We’ve just started,” she says.

  “And?”

  “Y’know, we’re doing so well now, just as we are.”

  “So we should go slowly, as you’ve said.”

  “Ye-ah,” she says. “In that, at least. Can we?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Do you mind? Really? It’s been good for us.”

  “It has.”

  “You are the love of my life, Alec!”

  He kisses her and turns off the light.

  “You’re not angry?” she says.

  “No, my love. Just tired. Big day tomorrow.”

  “Do you ever have small days?”

  He laughs. “God forbid.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Thursday afternoon. Alec’s office. He’s on the phone with his local counsel in Chicago. After a hiatus of several months, things are moving in an FTC proceeding against the magazine industry in which Alec represents all but two of the defendants. Sweeta bursts in. “Mr. Shilling’s on your other line. He says it’s life or death, and you must talk to him immediately.”

  Alec apologizes to the Chicago lawyer and picks up on his second line. “Marius?”

  “It’s not working, Alec! I told you it wouldn’t. I sent the telegrams out yesterday, right after lunch. First few responses were fine. Any excuse to come to New York, and so on. But then they got mixed, some yes, some no. And now the bulk of them say they’re not coming. It’s a disaster, and I’ve already booked the room!” He pauses for breath. “At your expense, of course.”

  “Well, don’t panic,” Alec says. “What did you tell them?”

  “The facts,” Shilling says. “What do you think? That you and Edison are settling with Mid-Atlantic, and you want to tell them why it’s in their best interests not to sue you. And, of course, I urged them to come listen.”

  “That’s it?”

  “In essence.”

  “Let me ask you this,” Alec says. “Do you want them to sue?”

  “I’d rather they didn’t, of course.”

  “Sounds to me, Marius, you may not want it enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a well-known trial lawyer. You’ve tried other antitrust cases. You’ve built a reputation you don’t want impaired.”

  “Where’s this going?”

  “Yet suddenly, you are rejected by 125 of your clients. They all dump you conspicuously in favor of Harold Kohn. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re not more upset about that.”

  “Hmm,” Shilling says.

  “So I think you need to send a follow-up telegram.”

  “I might have to, yes. Do you have some wording to suggest?”

  “I do,” Alec says. “Three points. One, that I have assured you I will make them an offer that they will absolutely want to accept. Two, that you personally believe my assurance to be true, based on our long association. And three, that those failing to attend will miss out.”

  “Miss out on what? The offer won’t go to them?”

  “Just say ‘miss out.’ More intriguing.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Alec. You talk about reputation. I’d be putting my entire reputation on the line with that message.”

  “Yes, but I won’t let you down, Marius. I never have, and I won’t now.”

  “All right, then,” Shilling says. “No more screwing around. What’s the offer you’re going to make them?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Alec says.

  “You still don’t know? You want me to trust the fact my clients will be happy with your offer, and you still don’t know what it is?”

  “I have the entire weekend to think about it,” Alec says.

  “Oh, Alec,” he says. “This time you’re asking too much.”

  “No I’m not, Marius. Because the alternative—Harold Kohn taking over your clients—is certain, and quite possibly ruinous. With me, you’ve got a chance.”

  “That you’ll come up with a brilliant offer?”

  “That’s it,” Alec says. “But you know I’ve done it before and have a powerful motivation to do it again. For both of our benefits. Whereas Kohn can’t wait to eat you alive.”

  After hanging up, Alec sits silently and still for a few minutes.So much bravado. Born of desperation. He has never before put as much pressure on himself without a single idea of redemption. Then he asks Sweeta to call Cadigan Breen.

  When Breen comes on, Alec summarizes his lunch meeting with Shilling and the telephone conversation they’ve just had. “What kind of offer?” Breen asks. “We just need to tell them why lawsuits against us would be a waste of their time and money.”

  “That won’t get them here, Caddy.”

 
; “How the hell can we make any offer? It would bankrupt your client and devastate mine.”

  “I’m not talking about a money offer.”

  “So… what, then?” Breen asks. “Magic dust? You’ve going to sprinkle it over hundreds of hard-bitten lawyers and businessmen and expect their heads to turn soft?”

  “Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it.”

  “Yes, Alec. This time you sound ridiculous. Sorry, but that’s the truth.”

  “Somehow, I think we’re missing something. Some way to convince these people.”

  “I’m old-fashioned. I’m just going to tell ’em why they’d lose. Why we have the better case.”

  “Okay,” Alec says. “Let’s hope that works. But I’ve committed myself to do more.”

  “Maybe you ought to be committed,” Breen says.

  “I hope that’s a joke.”

  “Yeah,” Breen says. “Me too.”

  Alec calls Larry Rilesman and fills him in on the hoped-for meeting with the 125 utilities. “Great,” Rilesman says. “So you’ll persuade them not to sue us.”

  “That’s the idea, yeah.”

  “Will it work?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “So what should I tell Bob Curtis?”

  “That we’re doing our best to keep his company alive.”

  “Okay, Alec. What the fuck should I tell him? We’re at another critical pass. What are the odds on success? Our success, or your failure?”

  “Your success isn’t really at risk, Larry. My chances of failure are fairly high. I wouldn’t put money on a win here. I wouldn’t even bet on there being a meeting.”

  “Jesus Christ, Alec. I can’t bring that news to Bob Curtis.”

  “Want me to call him?”

  “Don’t you fucking dare!”

  Friday afternoon, 4:30. Marius Shilling calls. “Okay, Alec,” he says.

  “Okay? You mean they’re coming?”

  “Yes. All but Philadelphia Electric.”

  “That’s Harold Kohn’s client,” Alec says.

  “Correct. And will your offer apply to them, even though they won’t be there?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Because you don’t even know what it is yet?”

  “Correct!” Alec snaps the word off in his best Prussian accent, which is to say, mimicking Shilling’s come-to-attention bark.

  “You’re killing me, Alec.”

  “Not doing great for me either at the moment—but stay cool, Marius. As I said, I have the weekend.”

  In reality he doesn’t. At the last minute, events conspire to force a meeting in Chicago on the magazine case. The flight there is spent preparing for that meeting. On the flight back, he falls asleep.

  Sunday comes and languishes. Alec tries devoting it to thinking about Monday’s meeting.

  Jesse says, midday, “Can we go to a movie?”

  “You go,” Alec says.

  “You’d think better if you went to a movie. It might clear your head.”

  “Okay,” Alec says, and they take in a show at one of the movie houses on Second Avenue. Doesn’t help. No ideas come to him. And ten minutes after the film, he can’t even remember the name of it.

  By nightfall, with the lights out, neither Alec nor Jesse is sleeping. She twists around to look in his face. “What is it, Alec?”

  “I’ve told you,” he says. “The meeting tomorrow. With hundreds of people who don’t want to be there. All of them think they must sue. And I know no way to talk them out of it.”

  “Don’t look at me,” she says, which at least makes him laugh. “What I do know is that the longer you stare at the ceiling, the less likely you’ll know what to say.”

  “I should simply fall asleep right now is your point.”

  “Yes,” she says. “That’s my point. It’s obvious, and I think it’s your only hope.”

  “So I’ll just do that,” he says.

  She kisses him lightly. “Night, night, Alec. Close your eyes. Let it happen. It will work.”

  “It’ll be like our trip to the movies,” he says.

  THIRTY

  The meeting is scheduled for 10 a.m. in the grand ballroom of the Sheraton New York. According to Marius Shilling, more than 500 people will attend. It might seem extraordinary that so many will arrive on such short notice, but, then again, who wouldn’t be drawn by the extraordinary offer Alec has promised to make them? In fact, Alec’s offer must be so extraordinary that, not only must everyone love it so much they’ll immediately go home and persuade their boards to accept it, but Breen and his client, Edison, must also join on the spot. Offering the same thing without having heard it before. Because if the utilities need to sue Edison, they won’t leave Allis-Benoit out.

  So it would be nice if Alec had any idea what that offer might be. At 9:30, Alec gets into Schlomo’s car—still with no answer to that question. Because of Shilling’s urging, the attendees may be willing to listen. But not to agree. They are, in fact, corporate executives or advisers who can’t conceive of being talked out of their position. It’s what their boards want, their PUCs want, and what common sense dictates. They have claims the federal government has endorsed. In two weeks, the statute of limitations will run out on those claims if they don’t bring them. So why wouldn’t they? Alec, though thinking about it intensively, has come up with no argument sufficiently compelling to lead them to do anything else.

  He’d told Shilling he would conceive of some offer, and the fact is he hasn’t. He discussed the problem with Braddock and Macalister. They had no solution. He’d hoped he might wake up with the answer in his head. It didn’t happen. One-on-one, in a small room, he might have been able to talk these utility people into most anything. Confronting a faceless crowd in a large auditorium, he had one shot to hit on an idea that would move everyone at once in the direction he needed them to go. Such an idea had simply refused to appear in his brain. And the time for finding it is about to expire!

  Schlomo says, “So, what’s your problem this morning?”

  “You think I have a problem?”

  “And you think what?” Schlomo says. “You think you’re a poker player? Difficult to read?”

  “Not by you, Schlomo. And you’re right. I have a problem.”

  “So maybe you should tell me what it is.”

  “Because maybe you have a solution?”

  “Maybe I do. Or maybe, if you break it down, make it simple—”

  “Right,” Alec says. “So this is the problem. I have to convince 500 people to do something they think is bad for their companies and worse for themselves.”

  “Is it?”

  “Not really. But the reasons are complicated.”

  “Complicated for the companies?”

  “Yes.”

  “And for the—”

  “The people themselves, well….” Alec says. And the idea dawns. Like a radiant light. And it burns even brighter as it unravels in splendid simplicity. Days of pounding against an apparent impossibility, and the solution is there. Right in front of him. In the back of a car. Clear. Ingenious. Eminently doable. “Schlomo, you’re a genius!”

  “I have my moments, it’s true.”

  “You should send me a bill,” Alec says.

  “A large one?”

  “Very large.”

  “I’d rather just hold it over your head, if you don’t mind.”

  “We’ll add it to the list, then.”

  “Yes, but now every time you get in my car, you say, ‘Schlomo, you’re a genius.’ I’ll take that.”

  “You got it,” Alec says. And they’ve arrived. Seventh Avenue and Fifty-Third Street.

  He bounds up the stone steps, through the revolving front door, and down the long hall to the back of the building. Marius Shilling is peering from the hall outside the ballroom, making no attempt to look calm. “Almost 600 here, and they’re getting restless. They came early. Had their own meeting. They’re talking about a class action. Harold Kohn has sent
them a memo.”

  “Is he here?”

  “He wouldn’t stoop,” Shilling says. “Harold doesn’t go to other lawyers’ meetings. They come to him.”

  “I’ll need a minute with my client.”

  “One minute,” Shilling warns. “That’s it. Literally. We have to start, or they’ll start leaving.”

  Inside, Alec’s entrance causes a stir that heightens as he walks down the center aisle of seats. Hundreds of people, almost all men in suits and ties, occupy nearly thirty rows of hotel folding chairs, in a vast but relatively low-ceilinged ballroom, under many glitzy blue-and-gold fixtures casting dazzling lights. Generally, the men are late middle age or older, resolute in demeanor, and not having a good time. Rilesman, standing at the foot of the stage, signals Alec and tries to talk over the drone of the crowd, which is becoming louder and more restive. “Sorry for the short notice, Alec, but I just got this from Bob Curtis. You can’t tell them we’ve been cutting prices. And you can’t tell them we’d go out of business if they sue.”

  “I wasn’t planning to.”

  “You weren’t?” Rilesman says, surprised. “What the hell else is there to say?”

  Alec quickly lays out his plan and asks, “Any problems with that?”

  “I have time to think about it?” Rilesman says angrily. It’s okay for him to toss a last-minute bombshell, but one coming at him is unpardonable. Even worse if it’s simple and can’t fail.

  “If it makes you feel better, Larry, I just thought of it. Three minutes ago. Or I would have filled you in before this.”

  Alec takes his seat onstage. Shilling is already introducing Cadigan Breen, who gets up beaming and tells a joke. Hundreds laugh. They like him but have little interest in what he has to say.

  He tells them his client set its prices independently with absolutely no contact with Allis-Benoit. He says management learned their lesson when the last round of price-fixing cost the company more than a billion dollars and sent many of their key executives to prison. He speaks of the importance in this business of close personal relations between manufacturer and customer, particularly with regard to the servicing of these extremely complicated and expensive machines, and how further litigation would disrupt those relations. His speech is written, and he reads it well. Then it’s Alec’s turn. When Shilling introduces him, with a lot of nice words about their work together on other cases, Alec gets to his feet and looks out on hundreds of glazed eyes.