by Charles Ayer
I’d run upstairs to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face while she put the rest of the pizza in the fridge and made some coffee.
“I just don’t understand it,” she said. “If he really needed the money that badly, he should’ve just told me.”
“Well, like you said, he really doesn’t have any idea how much you’re worth. Maybe he just believed that you didn’t have it.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t explain why he was so desperate that he went to a bunch of homicidal hoods to get it.”
“Maybe he just didn’t want to let Kenny down. If he really believed Allie that Kenny had gotten himself in trouble gambling, maybe he thought he had to protect him.”
“What, and put himself in the same predicament?”
“Well, yes,” I said. “Maybe it’s just part of the David Chandler Legend, you know? The guy who could always come up with the right play when the team needed it the most. And if he’s as bad with money as you say he is, he probably didn’t realize what he’d gotten himself into until it was too late.”
“Perhaps,” said Doreen, but she sounded dubious.
“By the way,” I said, “how’d the Mets do?”
“5-2.”
“I guess I don’t need to ask.”
“No, you don’t.”
The front door flew open without a knock, and Lacey walked in. She was wearing a threadbare pair of khakis with a tear in the right knee and a “Dire Straits ‘Money For Nothing’ Tour” tee shirt that hung on her thin frame.
“Hi guys,” she said, heading straight for the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open and bang close and some rustling noises, and she soon reappeared with the box containing the left over two-thirds of my large pizza and a Styrofoam McDonald’s coffee cup.
“Jeez, Lace,” I said, “that McDonald’s cup has been in the garbage since yesterday morning.”
“It’s not the first time in my life I’ve gone dumpster diving, bro. And perhaps if you’d get a couple more coffee cups I wouldn’t have to upset your delicate sensibilities.”
“I’ve got about a hundred mugs at home, Matt,” said Doreen. “I’ll bring a few over next time I stop by.”
“Thanks,” said Lacey. “Otherwise we’ll have to wait until the Mets win another World Series.”
“Wiseass,” I said.
“Anyone want a slice of pizza?” said Lacey, sitting down and opening the box.
“No, thanks,” Doreen said.
“I’ll pass for now,” I said.
“Good,” said Lacey, diving in. “So, what’s up?”
I told her what I’d already told Doreen, and added in the fact that I was now on the hook for the repayment.
“Matt, that’s terrible!” said Doreen.
Lacey laughed out loud.
“What’s so damn funny?” I said.
“You haven’t made that much money in your entire life, Matt. What the hell were you thinking about?”
“It’s not like I volunteered, Lace.”
“Matt, I’m going to take care of that, and I’m going to do it right away,” said Doreen.
“How are you going to do that?” I said.
“I’m going to get a cashier’s check written for the entire amount, and you’re going to get it to your old buddy, Walter Hudson. Hopefully, he won’t mind walking it over to the Empire State Building and handing it to Peter Kwan.”
Lacey gave Doreen a contemplative stare, but said nothing.
There was a knock on the door, but before I could get up from the sofa the door opened, and Marianne Boulanger Hunter, of all people, walked in. Judging from the look on her face, she wasn’t here just to see how I was doing.
******
“Well, well,” she said, glaring at Doreen and me. “This didn’t take long, did it?”
She was the last person I wanted to see, especially with Doreen practically sitting on my lap on the small sofa, but at least she’d knocked.
Marianne was born and raised in Greenwich, Connecticut, but I’d met her in a bar in Manhattan, where she’d been studying economics at Columbia at the same time I was at John Jay. She’d been pretty in that Fairfield County kind of way, but I’d convinced myself that I’d been attracted more to her intellect than her looks. Looking back, I think what I’d been attracted to had been the sure sense of purpose that she had so strongly emanated, even back then, and that I had so completely lacked. But a mistake was a mistake, and it was no more apparent than now.
“Give it a break, Marianne,” I said. She was still pretty, I guess. A pair of sunglasses sat atop her perfectly coiffed brunette hair that now sported streaks of blond. She had nice eyes that she knew how to make up for maximum effect. But the thin, pursed lips ruined the effect, and her once kind of nice little body was now fashionably starved. Even without the past, I’m not sure I would have found her attractive anymore.
“And if it isn’t dear, sweet little Lacey. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Bite me, Marianne.”
“That’s about what I’d expect from you,” said Marianne. “You can take the girl out of the gutter, but you can’t take the gutter out of the girl, can you?”
“Just sayin’, Marianne,” said Lacey, with a smile on her face. “Bite me.” She went back to her pizza.
“Enough,” I said. “Look, Marianne, Doreen’s here because David’s gone missing, and she’s hired me to find him.”
“She mustn’t be too anxious to find him, then,” said Marianne. “But how lovely for you.”
“Okay, Marianne,” I said. “You’ve made your point. You’re still the biggest bitch I’ve ever met in my life. We can retire the trophy, okay? You win. But I’m sure you didn’t come here just so we could exchange pleasantries. What do you want?”
“You clearly don’t have anything I want,” she said, looking around the room.
“Well, since nobody here gives Botox treatments or does boob jobs, you’re probably right,” said Lacey.
“Why, you little slut…”
“Just sayin’, Marianne. Something to think about.”
I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing. Marianne’s face reddened and looked like it was going to explode, and her whole body seemed to quiver. The only thing Marianne hated more than losing a verbal joust was losing one while I was there to watch. I almost started to feel bad for her.
“Marianne,” I said. “Please tell me what you came here for and then leave. Please.”
It took her a couple of tries to unsnap her large bag because her hands were shaking, but she finally succeeded. She reached in and pulled out an envelope.
“Here,” she said, holding the envelope out to me without moving.
I got up and walked toward her just far enough to take the envelope from her and sat back down next to Doreen, who hadn’t spoken a word since Marianne had walked in the door.
“What’s this?” I said.
“It’s a check for $10,000, representing our final settlement, and two copies of the final divorce papers: the original for you to sign and one for you to keep. Take your time reviewing the documents and just mail the signed original to my lawyer when you’re done.” She seemed to be rapidly regaining her composure. I’d always admired her resilience.
“You drove all the way over here, unannounced, just to hand this stuff to me?” I said. “You could’ve just mailed it.”
“No, this is something I wanted to get done as soon as possible.”
“And you wanted to get a first-hand look at just how badly I was doing, right?”
“I’m too busy for that kind of petty nonsense.”
“Hah,” said Lacey, through a mouthful of pizza.
“You got a pen in that purse?” I said, opening the envelope.
“Of course I do.”
“May I borrow it please?”
She reached into her purse, withdrew the pen, and actually took a step toward me, just close enough so that I could reach out and take the pen from her. I pulled th
e documents out of the envelope and spread them on the coffee table, careful to avoid a greasy spot where a stray piece of melted mozzarella had dropped on it the night before. I jotted a note on the original of the divorce settlement, signed the document, initialed the note, and handed it back to my ex-wife along with the check.
“Don’t forget to initial the note,” I said.
“Matt,” she said, holding the check back out to me, “this check is yours. It’s part of the settlement you just signed. If you don’t take it my lawyer will have to redraft the settlement.”
“I don’t want it, and it’s no longer part of the settlement as soon as you initial the note I just wrote.”
She looked at the document, and I saw her eyes scan the note, which said, “$10,000 settlement amount reduced to $0 in return for valuable consideration.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s the ‘valuable consideration’?”
“Oh, I think we both know what that is,” I said, walking to the door and opening it. “I think we’re done here, don’t you?”
And then Marianne Boulanger Hunter did the single most surprising thing I’d ever seen her do in all the years I’d known her.
She burst into tears.
“Marianne…”
“Just shut up, okay?” she said. She stuffed the settlement and the check back in her purse and left without another word.
“I think that went well, don’t you?” said Lacey as she polished off the last slice of pizza.
And then Doreen burst into tears.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Doreen,” I said.
“Shut up, Matt,” she said, rising from the sofa and heading for the door.
“Doreen, I…”
“You men don’t understand anything, do you?” she said, glaring at me. She turned and left, banging the door behind her.
I turned to Lacey and said, “What was that all about?”
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Matt,” she said as she dropped the empty pizza box on the coffee table and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“Show’s over and the pizza’s gone. I’m outta here,” she said as she slipped her slender frame out the door.
I stood in the middle of the room and stared at the door for a long time. Then I went back to the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee, but the pot was empty. I slammed it back onto the counter and stared at it.
“Fuck it,” I said.
Then I walked out the door, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I HEADED OVER TO MICKEY D’S for some comfort food, but by the time I got there I realized that I was too fed up to have an appetite, so I went back home, put on a pair of running shorts and an old Mets tee shirt, and drove over to the high school to go for a run.
The old high school track had gone the way of the old football field. Cinders had been replaced by an artificial surface that had a cushiony feel to it, and the circumference was now 400 meters instead of 440 yards. I had to admit, though, that the new surface felt good to my complaining knees. I remembered when David and I were kids how we’d competed with each other to see who could be the first to run a mile in under five minutes. I looked down at my watch now and realized I was barely running at an eight-minute pace, and my legs felt heavy.
I’d only run a couple of miles when I saw five high school-aged kids jogging over to the football field. One of the kids was carrying a football, and I immediately recognized him as Kenny Cooper, Junior. He was laughing and loping in an effortless way that made me jealous.
He didn’t resemble his father much physically. Kenny Senior had always been a mesomorph, with a broad chest, bulging arms, and thick thighs. His son was well built, but his physique was much more like mine had been as a kid: built more for speed than for running over defending linemen. It was a build he’d gotten from his mother’s side of the family, I thought. I vaguely recalled that Allie’s brother had been a damn good athlete himself. The apple never falls far from the tree.
As he ran by me he called out, “Hey, you’re Matt Hunter!” He slowed down.
It was good to have an excuse to stop running, if that was what you could call it. I walked over to him and shook his hand.
“And you must be Kenny Junior.”
“Chip off the old block, huh?” he said, smiling easily.
“Yeah, you’re tough to miss,” I said, even though he didn’t look like his father at all. He had his mother’s dark coloring, and her nose. He was a good-looking kid.
“My Dad talks about you all the time. He says you had the best pair of hands he’d ever seen.”
“Catching the ball is easy when you’ve got a good quarterback throwing to you.”
“But you still gotta have the hands. Hey! Guys! This is Matt Hunter. You know, the third guy in that picture.” They all came over, and we shook hands all around to a chorus of deep-throated “Hey’s.”
“So, hey, Mr. Hunter, do you want to run a few routes?” said Kenny. “These guys are all a bunch of pussies and they say I throw the ball too hard.”
“Shit, Kenny,” said one. “I still got a bruise the size of a softball from the last pass I caught.” To prove his point, he lifted up his tee shirt. The bruise was just starting to turn color and it was a beauty.
“You sure you didn’t crack one of those ribs?” I said.
“Yeah, I had it checked out,” said the kid. “It’ll be okay.”
“So, will ya?” said Kenny.
“Why not?” I said. It was tough to back down at that point, and besides, I was curious. I jogged about twenty yards down the field and turned around.
“Somebody better call an ambulance,” I heard one of the kids joke as they sat down on the field to watch the show.
“Just a couple of soft tosses first,” I said, “and then I’ll run a few routes, okay?”
“Okay,” said Kenny.
“Okay,” said one of the other guys. The others chuckled.
Kenny tossed the ball to me with a motion so smooth it looked almost lazy, so I was shocked when the ball came hissing at me like an angry rattlesnake. I got my hands up just in time, but the ball left my fingers tingling. I’d done this before, and it felt good to be doing it again, despite the sting. He made a few more practice tosses and then I jogged back to him. I heard the other guys murmuring something.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s start out with a little down and out. I’ll break right at about twenty yards.”
Kenny nodded. I lined up beside him and heard him give a soft, “hut.” I took off and made a nice, clean cut twenty yards downfield. I looked back, trying to look smooth, but the ball was already on top of me. It was only the years of doing this with David that saved me. I got my hands up and I hoped I made it look easy, but my hands were on fire.
“Okay,” I said when I got back. “How about a little button route, same distance.”
Kenny nodded and I lined up again.
“Hut.”
It was the same thing. I was a little better prepared this time, but still, the ball got by my hands a little and I felt a rib go numb. I tried not to let it show.
As I jogged back I noticed that the peanut gallery had quieted down considerably.
Then we ran a crossing pattern. At least on a crossing pattern I was able to keep my eyes on Kenny as I ran my route. I saw him as he dropped back, his footwork perfect, and let the ball go with that easy motion. The ball came at me so fast he only had to lead me by a foot or two. I never had to break my stride, and the ball whistled straight into my hands.
“So, how about a post pattern?” said Kenny when I got back to him. “I heard you and Uncle David used to run them a lot.”
“Yeah, we did. Let’s line up at mid-field, okay?”
“You got it,” said Kenny, smiling.
I took off down the field and made my cut. I remembered the feeling of waiting for David to throw until it seemed impossibly late, but Kenny waited longer. Then I s
aw that easy motion, and the ball came at me like a torpedo. It had less arc on it than David’s throws ever had, and I could hear it humming as it got closer. Once again I never broke stride, and it sailed into my hands with a velocity that still made them sting, even after travelling fifty-five yards.
As I jogged back the other guys stared at me in stunned amazement. Kenny was still grinning. No wonder, I thought to myself, that things had gotten awkward between the two families. I actually found myself feeling the worst for the two boys. It was impossible for them not to know what the situation was.
“That was cool,” he said. “Thanks, man.”
“That was more fun than I’ve had in a long time,” I said, panting. “Thanks to you, too.”
“Hey, I’m gonna run a few cool-down laps. Are you gonna hang for a while?”
“Sure,” I said.
The other kids begged off, and I sat on the field by myself, watching Kenny sail around the track. I told myself I shouldn’t have been surprised. His father had always had a terrific arm, too. We’d actually tried out some option plays where Kenny had a chance either to run or throw, but he’d never had any control over his throws, and, besides, all he’d ever wanted to do was put his head down and run over people. When you’re a hammer everything looks like a nail, and to Kenny everything looked like a running play. He couldn’t convince himself to let go of the ball once he had it in his hands.
The grass beneath me felt good, and running those routes with Kenny Junior had brought back a lot of wonderful memories. But I also had to admit to myself, finally, that it was those memories that had held the seeds of my eventual mediocrity.
I had grown up to cheers: cheers from my teammates; cheers from my schoolmates, and cheers from practically the whole town, week after week. Those cheers every time I caught a touchdown pass from David had given me a visceral thrill, the kind of thrill that could become addictive. And it did. But then I played my last game, and the cheering stopped. People didn’t cheer when I got an “A” in Criminology in college, or turned in a term paper on time. They didn’t cheer when, as an NYPD cop, I broke up a fight, or prevented a robbery. And they certainly didn’t cheer when I finalized a divorce or bailed a drunk out of jail during my disastrous years as a lawyer. I had wanted those cheers; I had needed those cheers, and when I didn’t get them I had just quit on myself.