Dead Money (2 page)

We’ve got a problem, he said.

Yes, we do, I thought but didn’t say. His notion of what the problem might be was highly unlikely to agree with mine.

We had a meeting of the Executive Committee last night.

He paused. I waited.

Revenues are down, he said, giving me a Look.

He was concerned, the Look told me, that I had been insufficiently attentive to the problem of declining revenues.

So I understand, I said, trying to fill the conversational space. But it’s a cyclical business. Things will pick up soon.

It’s a cyclical business, he repeated, with a small impatient shrug. Yes. But we have obligations to the firm.

Yes, I said. Of course we do.

And we can’t permit these fluctuations to get out of hand. Everyone here depends on that. We can’t have big peaks and valleys.

I would think the peaks are okay, I said with an innocent smile.

Valleys aren’t, he said grimly. So we have to smooth out the valleys. And when downtrends occur, the Committee must act. That’s our fiduciary responsibility. To the partners. To the firm.

I was waiting to hear what all this had to do with me.

In ’98, when things were going bad, we managed to find Gibson. To fill the gap. His billings were a boon to the firm.

Yes. I recall.

This year, there’s no Gibson on the horizon.

That’s too bad, I commiserated.

Yes, it is. So we need to take other measures.

I see.

We’ve drawn up a list.

A list.

A probation list.

Ah.

Yes. Now, Redman, I don’t want you to take this personally. We go back a long way. And we all appreciate your abilities. You’re a terrific trial lawyer. But that’s only one part of being a successful partner. We expect everybody to carry their weight around here. And you do have to admit that you don’t bring in the kind of business that your talents would indicate you should.

My gut clenched. Something with small sharp teeth was chewing on my gall bladder.

So we’ve put you on the list.

Warwick pushed out his chest. Gave me an imperious look.

He seemed to be expecting a response.

What was I supposed to say, exactly? ‘Thank you, oh wise one, for tripling my psychiatrist bills and giving me less income to pay them with’?

What exactly does that mean? I managed to croak.

We’re not asking you to leave, he said. But we’re going to ask you to prove yourself. Over the next six months to a year. Probation, like I said, in a sense. We need you to work up to the level of your abilities, Redman. Get out there. Beat the bushes. Rustle up some business. Show the flag. Go to lunch with someone other than Dorita Reed.

That last was a low blow.

I see, I said.

And please, Redman. Start getting in to work at a reasonable hour. I personally don’t care if you come in at midnight. But it makes a bad impression.

Yes, I said. Morale.

Exactly, he replied smugly, pleased that I had so efficiently imbibed that morning’s earlier lesson.

Listen, Redman, he continued, look on it as an opportunity. We’re not singling you out. There are eight others on that list.

I knew it wasn’t my place to ask who my fellow probationists were. But I had an idea. List the partners with personalities. Multiply by those with interests beyond the profitability of the firm. Shake well. Don’t stir. Might rock the boat.

If it works out, great, he went on. Welcome back. If it doesn’t? Well. I think we can both just agree that your heart’s not in it. Because I know you can do it. If you want to.

Yes, I said. Of course.

Why did I feel like a delinquent high school student?

Ah, I answered myself. Because I was being treated like one.

Though it was true, that last bit anyway. I could do it. If I wanted to. But it was a goddamn big ‘if.’ I’d never been a natural at the schmoozing game. The cocktail party chatter. Inviting prospects to lunch. ‘Hey, keep me in mind, buddy.’ It always seemed a bit too much like begging. I preferred to let my trial work speak for itself. Apparently it hadn’t been speaking loudly enough.

Redman, Warwick then said jovially, as though none of the previous
had occurred, as though we were all just good old buddies again. You have some criminal experience, don’t you?

I hesitated. Criminal experience? What now? My adolescent shoplifting career? Weren’t those records sealed? The pain in my lower back made a sharp comeback.

You do some pro bono stuff, don’t you? he prodded.

The pain receded.

Sure, I replied. Mostly appeals. Death penalty appeals. The Case of the Red Car Door. I’ve done a couple of trials too. Manslaughter. Aggravated assault. Nothing special.

Well, I guess you’re the best I’ve got, then, he said.

I refrained from thanking him for the vote of confidence.

FitzGibbon’s son’s in some kind of trouble, he said.

This gave me pause.

I want you to handle it, he said.

What kind of trouble? I asked.

Never mind what kind of trouble. Bad trouble. I don’t know. Drugs. Murder. Grand theft auto. I couldn’t make out FitzGibbon’s voice mail. He sounded disturbed. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what it is. Find out. Get on it. Handle it. Make it go away. Make him happy. Get some more business from him. It’ll be the first step on the way to your rehabilitation.

I nodded obediently. Fine choice of word. Rehabilitation.

You’ll be a hero, he said.

Warwick turned his chair to the window, signaling the end to the audience.

I turned to leave.

Oh, Redman? Warwick said.

I turned back.

Yes? I asked.

Lose the sneakers.

I got the hell out of there. I asked Cherise for the FitzGibbon particulars.

She gave them to me with a wink.

I had no idea what it meant.

I WENT BACK TO MY OFFICE.

I called Dorita.

You won’t believe this, I said.

Oh, shut up, Ricky. You already said that. I’ve got a client meeting in ten minutes.

Put it off. FitzGibbon’s son’s in trouble. Something serious. Warwick wants me to handle it. Oh, and I’m being fired.

Jesus, she whispered. I’ll be right there.

In less than a minute she was at my office door.

Come in, I mumbled.

She flounced onto the couch. Lit a cigarette with her blowtorch.

You know, there’s a rule about smoking in the office, I said.

Right, she said, tapping some ashes on the carpet. So what’s this all about?

I told her about my audience with His Portliness. At the mention of probation, a moment’s shock passed across her face. She quickly brushed it off.

Did they issue you an ankle bracelet? she asked breezily.

Listen, I said, I appreciate the effort, but this is too big for a joke or two. Let me digest it for a while. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.

My, my, Ricky. You’re getting soft in your old age.

Tomorrow, I repeated, with unusual resolve.

Okay, have it your way. So, what’s this FitzGibbon thing?

I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. FitzGibbon’s son, what’s-his-name. He’s in some kind of trouble. Not a speeding ticket. Something serious. I don’t know what.

Jules. His name is Jules.

Right. But the thing is, why me? It’s not like I’m a top-flight criminal lawyer. I’m a civil litigator, for Christ’s sake. I just do the stuff on the side. Do my bit for the social fabric, all that.

My poor little paranoid bunny. Warwick just wants to keep it in the house. You get the boy off, we get more business from Daddy.

Yeah, well. That might make sense. But I can’t help thinking Warwick’s setting me up to fail. Rehabilitation. Jesus.

Well, I can’t say that’s utterly beyond the realm of possibility. But what are you going to do about it?

Do my best, darling. Just like always. Sad but true. Can’t help myself.

That’s the ticket, Ricky. Anyway, you know the old man hates his guts.

Who?

Jules. FitzGibbon can’t stand him.

I’ll ignore the fact that the ‘old man’ is in my age bracket. And I know. Or at least, so I’ve been told. But blood runs thick, darling.

If blood it is, in that shit’s veins.

Well, yes. To tell you the truth, I don’t know the guy very well. Met him at a cocktail party or two. Big red Irishman as I recall. Full of noise and spit.

That’s the one. You’re not going to have an easy time with him.

Meaning?

Meaning he’s a major-league prick. He fired a guy for having a Snickers in the elevator.

Was he just holding it, or eating it?

What?

The guy with the Snickers. Was it unwrapped? Was he
eating
it in the elevator?

I don’t know. What kind of question is that?

Well, if he was eating it, I could understand.

Sure, and maybe he was wearing sneakers, too.

Snickers
and
sneakers? Jesus.

You’re right. I’d have fired him too.

FITZGIBBON’S OFFICE WAS
on the thirty-third floor of the Consolidated Can building. It was vast and modern, paneled in the sort of expensive blond wood that gave me a headache. Furnished in black leather and chrome. A large twisted ropelike thing reposed on the coffee table. I took it to be a pricey piece of Modern Art.

A much-too-well-manicured young man was sitting stiffly in the left-hand visitor’s chair. His hair was expensively coiffed and lacquered. He looked like a salsa kind of guy.

FitzGibbon gave the kid a nod. The salsa guy moved to the less comfortable chair. On the way, he gave me a Look. I wasn’t sure what kind of Look it was. But it was definitely a Look.

Security, FitzGibbon said.

Ah, I said.

I wondered what it was about me that seemed dangerous.

FitzGibbon himself had a set of perfectly sculpted New Teeth. Caps, I surmised. They would not have been out of place in a glass display case. In his mouth, on the other hand, they were a bit too big. They gave him a perpetual too-large grin. Which actually wasn’t too bad an effect. Something about him, I’d heard, made young female subordinates’ heels turn suddenly round, as they used to say.

He also had the Irish flush - which at a distance or in good lighting could have been taken for a Perpetual Tan – together with an Insistent Nose.

In short, he was a prize.

First of all, he said, in a deep voice that betrayed the excessive cultivation of the formerly uncultivated, I’d like to thank you for taking this on. It means a lot to me.

Not a problem, I said. It’s my pleasure.

Not to mention that I hardly had a choice, I neglected to add.

Really, it does, he said, as though I might be doubting his sincerity.

I appreciate that, I reassured him.

I guess you know that Jules and I have had our problems, he said.

I’ve heard a few things.

Well, pay no attention. He’s my son. I’m not going to let him twist in the wind.

Of course not.

Wouldn’t look good.

He lifted up a large glass ashtray. Shifted it from hand to hand.

Bad for business, he elaborated.

I nodded. I struggled to keep my poker face.

FitzGibbon looked at the lacquered gent in the other chair.

The salsa guy was staring straight at me, scowling. Like I might spring up any second and spray the joint with slugs from a cleverly concealed Uzi.

I know, FitzGibbon said. You think I’m just another arrogant rich guy.

He paused. I did my best to maintain my neutral, expectant air.

Eight kids, he continued. My father left when I was five. Never gave
us a dime til he died. Westchester to Hell’s Kitchen. Mom died when I was sixteen. I was the oldest. I took care of the rest. Worked my ass off.

I nodded sympathetically.

It wasn’t easy.

I can imagine, I said, sincerely. But didn’t your father have to pay child support?

Those were different days, he said.

I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

I started my own business, he said. I’m not saying I was a genius. I’m no genius. But I built it up from scratch. Machine tools. Built it up. Branched out. Trucking. Taxi fleets. Whatever came along.

I nodded admiringly.

Didn’t let anything get in my way, he said, giving me a new kind of Look.

It was the kind of Look that told me it wouldn’t be wise to get in his way.

He let the Look linger for a while. I shifted in my chair. The room was uncomfortably warm. My hands felt sticky. I wiped them on my trousers, as discreetly as I could.

And I don’t keep it all to myself, he said.

I see, I replied.

Sure. I’m active in the community. The mayor’s antidrug task force. I’m the chairman. I fund the whole damn thing.

That’s very admirable, I said.

I wondered why he seemed so anxious to impress me.

And then I got lucky, he said. I raised my eyebrows.

I met Veronica. Beautiful woman. Fell in love with her.

He fixed me with a challenging stare.

I did, he said, with a touch of aggression. Whatever you’ve heard, we married for love.

The fact was, I’d heard nothing. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

So if I’ve still got a few rough edges …

His face went blank. He stared into space.

I took the unfinished sentence as my cue to make a contribution.

Well, I said, I can relate to that.

Really? he said, turning back to me.

Sure. I flunked out of high school myself, originally. Had to go back later, to get into college.

Jesus H. Christ, that a fact? You hear that? he asked, turning to Mr. Hairdo.

Mr. Hairdo didn’t take his eyes off me.

It is, I said. Charles probably didn’t tell you about that.

No, he didn’t. Probably thought I’d be put off.

FitzGibbon pondered for a moment.

Warwick’s a pompous ass, he said.

I smiled, involuntarily. Maybe this guy wasn’t so bad after all.

My wife’s the only reason he gets my business, he continued.

I see, I said.

She and Joan are close.