Housebreaking (23 page)

* * *

ON THE DRIVE
to the office he flipped open his cell and pressed Sampson's number. It rang five times before going to voice mail. Andrew hung up and dialed again, and this time Sampson answered, his voice heavy.

“Attorney Murray. How's that hamstring?”

“I'll risk it.”

“I've been swamped, thanks to you.”

“Yes, thanks to me. How about tonight? There must be some indoor courts around here.” Andrew thought he detected a voice in the background. He pressed the phone closer to his ear but couldn't hear over the road noise and the slapping of the windshield wipers. “Well?”

“Sure, I know a place. I'll call for a reservation.”

“Do that.”

“What time is it anyway?”

“Time to get up. I got some ideas on that employee privacy case. I'll come by your office in the afternoon.”

Andrew shut the phone, then checked the time: a few minutes before seven. He hadn't realized it was so early.

* * *

AFTER HIS
final deposition of the day Andrew picked up his tennis racket and went down the hall to Sampson's office. He stood outside the door, holding his breath. Sampson was talking on the phone, his voice low and confident: “When did he say that?” and then, “No, I don't know that guy,” and, “Perfect, that's perfect.” After a minute Andrew stepped into the doorway, posing with the tennis racket as if about to hit a forehand. Sampson waved him in, his feet up on the desk. He gestured with his hand like a duck quacking. Finally he replaced the phone. “Sorry about that.”

“Who was it?”

“Insurance adjuster.”

“This time of day?”

“He's West Coast.”

“Which case?”

“Not one of yours. Hey, let me see that.”

Andrew passed over the tennis racket, and Sampson took off the vinyl cover and felt the grip. “You've got big hands.” He picked at the twine, straightening the strings.

“Did you reserve the court?”

Sampson handed back the tennis racket. “Bad news. I can't do it tonight.”

“Seriously?”

Sampson shrugged. “Sorry.”

“You should have told me earlier. I would have made other plans.”

Sampson adjusted his glasses. “This came up at the last minute. An old buddy of mine is coming into town for the night. I have to pick him up at the airport.”

“That's no excuse.”

“I'll make it up to you. How about this weekend? Dinner on me this time.”

“Maybe. I'll get back to you.”

Andrew went back to his office but found it difficult to concentrate on his work. After a half hour he walked down the hall and knocked on Hannahan's door. When no one answered, he pushed open the door. The old man was leaning back in his chair, snoring quietly. Andrew rapped his knuckles on the door, and Hannahan's eyes came open. He cleared his throat and wiped his lips. “Caught me napping,” he said.

“I had a glass of that single malt last night,” Andrew lied. “Smooth stuff.”

“Glad you liked it.” Hannahan opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle. “Care for a nip now? It's the same year.”

“Glasses?”

“Right behind you.”

Andrew glanced at the framed photograph on the bookshelf. There was Hannahan in black and white, twenty-five years younger, smiling confidently alongside four cohorts. Andrew could summon the name of only one, the tall man in the center. William Oshry. All four were dead. He remembered their shiny faces, their banter and quips, their sturdy handshakes. They used to gather at the center table at the University Club in Greenwich. They would drink and blather. After each round they would throw dice to see who would sign the chit for the drinks. The
club was gone now, which was fine with Andrew. Those stifling summer nights. The heavy red leather seats in the drawing room. The cigar haze. The air conditioner always seemed to go wrong. The club hadn't admitted women until the late eighties. He'd often had to pinch himself to stay awake, listening to the old men ramble on. Oshry had been the worst bore, the oldest of the lot. In his prime he'd represented the railroad, and he talked about little else. One evening Andrew had noticed that the old man's complexion was a shocking orange. He'd nearly said something to him. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Oshry was dead within the month—liver cancer—and the others in the picture followed soon after with no great loss to humanity or the gross national product. Next came the wrecking ball to knock down their precious University Club. They were all gone, that world was gone, all but Hannahan, the last man standing.

Andrew passed the glasses across the desk, noticing that Hannahan looked slightly orange himself today. He usually had that nice rosiness, the pustules around his nose aflame. Perhaps cancer was in play here as well, eating away at Hannahan's lungs or spleen, some other vulnerable organ. Perhaps Hannahan knew it. If so, he would never tell anyone, the old phlegmatic bastard.

“How are you feeling, Jack?”

Hannahan poured the scotch with a trembling hand. “Never better.”

Perhaps Hannahan was dying. If so, Andrew asked himself whether he felt anything remotely like sympathy for him, and he decided that he did not. Hannahan was what, seventy-nine? Eighty? He'd had his run. It was the natural order of things that he should expire. He had been Andrew's mentor, sure, but not out of any great kindness. With all that work, he'd needed someone to carry the load. Hannahan had picked him as his prize mule, had brought him along, and Andrew had done well for him. That was the natural order. You passed it down, just as Andrew would pass it down to Johnny Sampson.

“How's your protégé?” said Hannahan, as if reading Andrew's thoughts. “The young Mr. Sampson.”

“In my bad books at the moment. I invited him for tennis tonight and he canceled on me at the last minute.”

“I always preferred golf.”

“Off to the airport to meet a buddy, he said.”

“You don't believe him?”

“Not for a minute.”

Hannahan shrugged. “Maybe he's up to his old tricks with the secretaries. A handsome boy, you can't blame him for taking advantage. Even if it's not a particularly smart career move. We had to issue a formal reprimand.”

“You told me. But I trust you were exaggerating about the number of his conquests.”

“Not at all.”

“Which secretaries? Anyone in my department?”

Hannahan rubbed his chin. “There was a Hispanic fellow who has since left the firm, a paralegal.”

“What was his name?”

The old man squinted. “Pedro, I believe. There were others.”

“Well, he's a faggot. You know what they're like.”

“Now, now, Andy. Tell me what he did to earn your ire.”

“We played tennis last week. I had him down a set before my hamstring gave out.”

“Aah.” Hannahan laughed. “You never liked to lose.”

“So they say.” Andrew took a sip of the scotch. That sudden warmth filled his mouth, his nostrils, his chest. With the warmth came a flickering of affection for Hannahan. He was the last of his kind, like a bison or buffalo, some near-extinct North American mammal that once roamed the plains in herds of thousands. “Your skin looks bad, Jack. Have you had a checkup lately?”

Hannahan waved him off. “I'm Irish. Of course my skin looks bad.” He leaned back in his chair. “You know, I'm only half-joking, calling him your protégé. There's a lot of potential there.”

Andrew nodded. “I'm willing to give him a chance.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

“He's smart, that's for certain. But I'm not sure whether he wants it badly enough.”

“That'll become clear once you put him to the test.” The old man sipped the scotch with his thin lips. “We had a sergeant in Korea, a Swede by the name of Pederson. Toughest SOB you'd ever want to meet. Arms like concrete blocks. He lived on cigarettes and coffee, as far as I could tell. The first time we saw combat, he turned and ran like a schoolgirl.
They found him cowering in a ditch two miles behind the lines. They had to ship him stateside. You never can tell until that first shot how someone will react.”

Andrew sensed more Korea to come, so he finished the drink and set down the glass. “Well, I gave Sampson a couple of choice cases, so I hope he's up to the task.”

“Care for another? It's Friday, after all.”

Andrew got up, offering a deferential smile. “I should head home. Thanks for the drink.”

“Of course, my boy. Give my best to Audrey and Emma.”

As Andrew left, he saw the old man refill his glass.

* * *

ANDREW PACKED
his briefcase and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The bar in the lobby was crowded and brightly lit. Andrew ducked inside and had two quick tequilas. A drink he hadn't had for years, maybe since law school.

The fellow on the next stool introduced himself as a heavy machinery salesman from Des Moines, Iowa. A large man with liver-spotted hands. He nodded toward a table of office workers. “There's something sad about a fat woman wearing a party dress. All gussied up like that.” He squinted at Andrew, looking him up and down. “Well, that's a coincidence.”

“What?”

The man pointed at his suit jacket. “We're both wearing olive suits and blue shirts.”

“Is that a Polo?” said Andrew.

“My suit? It's Big and Tall Man Shop.” He offered to buy Andrew a drink. “Since we seem to appreciate the same color schemes in men's fashion.”

“Thanks, but this is my last one.”

The salesman nodded. “A wise choice. In my experience, happy hour is neither happy nor does it last an hour.”

It was a sodden night, the wind and rain coming in sweeps. Andrew turned up his windshield wipers. Without really thinking, he turned in to Elizabeth Park and drove slowly around the loop. The road was unlit and rutted with potholes, with cars parked haphazardly on either side. Some were idling with brake lights on; most were dark.

At the end of the loop, he parked in the dirt lot in front of the tennis
courts. He told himself he was taking a breather, a moment for himself. The lot was empty. The courts were leaf-strewn and covered with pine needles. Yet bright outdoor lights illuminated the courts, shining from the tops of telephone poles around the perimeter. A few stray tennis balls lay near the fence. When the wind rose, wet leaves flapped on the courts like injured birds.

Andrew turned off the motor. The outdoor lights gave off a hive-like buzz, which he found strangely relaxing. After some time, the car grew cold. When his cell phone rang he glanced at the caller identification—Audrey—and turned off the phone. He'd promised always to answer his phone, ever since that day. But he couldn't talk to her at the moment. He tried to put her out of his mind. He tried to think of nothing. As if turning off his phone were some crime. As if she hadn't sat on her hands for— No, he wouldn't. It did no good. None of it had done any good. The lawsuit. The memorial. What had he expected?
Nothing
, he told himself. Think of nothing. He imagined walking down the center of an empty street in an abandoned city . . .

At precisely 8:00
P.M.
the outdoor lights went off with a metallic clang, and a deeper silence followed. A few minutes later a car pulled up next to him—a beat-up Toyota Corolla with electrical tape covering the rear window.

The car door slammed. Then came a tapping at his window. Andrew lowered his window a few inches. “What's up?”

The young man was very thin, wearing jeans and a tight black T-shirt, his shoulders bunched against the rain. His head was shaved perfectly clean. “Can I get in?” He spoke with an accent, Russian or Polish, it sounded like.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one years,” he said.

He looked eighteen at the most. Andrew said, “Sorry, no.”

“Come on, open door. You think I hurt you?” He grinned and flexed his biceps: The muscle barely moved. He weighed no more than 135 pounds.

“What do you want?”

“Want? I want nothing. What you want?”

Andrew realized he wanted information. He said, “Do you know a guy who comes around here? He drives a little black convertible. You ever see anyone like that?”

“Yes.”

“What does he look like?”

“Good looks. He is very good-looking. Can I get in now?” He shivered, his bare arms trembling.

“You know him?”

“Yes, I know him.”

Andrew pressed the unlock button and nodded toward the passenger door. The boy passed in front of the car and climbed in, filling the interior with the smell of cigarettes. He rubbed his hands together and breathed on them. His shaved head was startlingly white, like an egg.

Andrew said, “So you know this guy?”

The boy nodded.

“When did you last see him?” Andrew spoke slowly, articulating the words. The boy stared back with cloudy blue eyes, his expression blank. His arms seemed to be made of bone only, they were so thin. “Was he here tonight?”

“Yes.”

“He was in the park?”

“Yes.”

“When did you see him?”

“I see him now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are him, yes?”

“What?”

“You want me to say yes, yes?”

Andrew rubbed his brow. “No. This isn't a game. I'm asking you—”

The boy placed his hand on Andrew's thigh and began rubbing him. Andrew pressed his legs together. “No, no. I'm asking about my friend.”

“Let me, please. I see you are hard. I like very much.”

The boy leaned over and undid Andrew's pants and used his mouth. The egg-like head, dipping and rising. Andrew looked over the steering wheel, staring at the tennis courts and the dark woods beyond. When he came, he heard the boy's breath quicken.