“Sometimes you’re the pitcher,” said Lav, “and sometimes you’re the bug. I’d like you to talk to your client for me. Convince him that the deal is in his best interests.”
“Convince him to commit a crime, you mean. No thank you.” I took a long draft of beer. Funny, it tasted great, cool and crisp. Maybe they should squash a roach at the bottom of every pitcher of beer, sort of like the worm in the tequila.
“I have an idea,” said Lav with a disingenuous ingeniousness in his voice, as if he had just come up with the idea. “You could talk to the mother. I understand you’ve been in touch. You could advise her as to what you believe to be the most profitable, and safest, course of action for her son. You wouldn’t be advising Charlie to commit a crime, but you would be doing something that could quite possibly save his life.”
“If you want to lobby Charlie’s mother, be my guest, but it won’t do any good. She wants her boy to come home, that’s what this is really all about. And trust me, Lav, you don’t want to get in her way.”
“Oh.” A little smile played out on his pouty lips. “I think I can handle her.”
“Bring an army with you when you try, because you’ll need it.” I finished off my beer, slammed the glass back on the table, lowered my voice. “Who are you working for?”
“One of the things I get paid for is discretion, something you should learn.”
“Oh, I can be discreet when I want to, but things keep puzzling me. There were two paintings stolen from the Randolph Trust, the Rembrandt and a Monet. You’ve only asked about the Rembrandt. Why?”
“It was only the Rembrandt that was mentioned in the news.”
“Ah, but a smart guy like you, Lav, one who, as you’ve repeatedly told me, does his homework, would know enough to at least ask about both.”
“My collector is not interested in the other work.”
“I find that hard to believe. If he is as you described, then nothing would delight him more than scoring two masterworks in one illicit deal.”
“Who can plumb the fathomless depths of the obscenely rich? Fitzgerald was right, they are different from you and me.”
“Sure they are, they pay less taxes. But it was a little queer, your not asking about the second painting. It was as if your collector already knew that Charlie only had access to the one. How would he know that?”
“What he knows doesn’t concern me.”
“And how did you know to contact Ralph and Joey when it seemed your offer to me had gone nowhere? Why those two?”
“Old friends of Charlie’s.”
“But they were more than that, weren’t they? They had a claim on the painting, too, and you knew it. And somehow you also knew about my father.”
“What is your point?”
“I think you’re working for someone who was involved in what went down thirty years ago. I think you’re working for someone who doesn’t give a damn about the painting but is more interested in buying silence. And maybe it’s not enough to pay off Charlie. Maybe you’re required to silence the others. Like Ralph? And Joey, if you could only deal with him in person and not on the phone? Buy the witnesses or kill them off, either/or, just so that everything stays quiet.”
Lav clapped his hands sarcastically. “Aren’t you the clever boy! It is a rather cute theory, except that it is completely and slanderously wrong. If I had killed Ralph, it would have been quickly ruled a suicide, mark my words on that. And as for the painting’s not being of prime importance, false false false. All I care about, I assure you, is getting hold of that Rembrandt. That’s how I get paid, and I will get paid. Finally, as for silence being my client’s main goal here, I can’t tell what is in the recesses of my client’s mind, but I must ask why? I’m no lawyer, but I know enough to know that the statute of limitations has run on the robbery. Why would it be worth a couple of lives for the story to go away?”
I took a photograph out of my suit jacket, tossed it toward him. He picked it up, squinted at it, handed it back. “I never cared for children,” he said.
“Her name is Chantal Adair. The picture’s from thirty years ago. She went missing the same time as the Rembrandt. Never heard from since.”
He looked again at the photograph, bit his lip as he tried to figure it out.
“That’s what your client wants to keep quiet,” I said.
“Is she dead?”
“Maybe, or maybe just kept illicitly, like a stolen painting, kept in a locked room, looked at sparingly. Who knows?”
“But you’re going to find out, is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“Until the money is good enough for you to turn your back.”
“There’s not enough.”
“There’s always enough, Victor, you should know that by now.”
“I don’t think so,” I said as I loosened my tie and started unbuttoning my shirt.
Lavender Hill’s eyes darted around to check out the scene in the bar before he leaned forward. He watched as each button slipped out of its slit. When I showed him the tattoo, his eyes widened, he read the name, and then a huge smile cracked his hardened face.
“My, aren’t we full of surprises!”
“Why don’t we make a deal, Lav, you and I?”
“Oh, yes, let’s.” He rubbed his hands hungrily. “I’ve been wondering when we would start our delicate negotiations. We are of a like mind, I believe. I sensed that from the start. So, Victor, what are your terms?”
“I will mention your offer to Mrs. Kalakos, which is as far as I can go down that street, but she’s a smart enough cracker to get my drift and independent enough that she would make her own decision in any event.”
“Fabulous. You will also have to escort Charles and the painting to me if an agreement is finally reached.”
“I can only take him and the painting to the police.”
“I don’t trust him. For some reason I trust you. If a deal is reached, you will ensure that the painting and I get together like lost lovers. And, of course, by doing so, you’ll also protect your client from my murderous intentions.”
I thought on that a bit. Whatever Charlie decided to do with the painting, I realized, I would have to be part of it. He was just as likely to get himself killed as to get himself a big payday. I had promised Mrs. Kalakos I would deliver him home alive, and I couldn’t renege on that, partly because she terrified me and partly because there was a family obligation.
“Okay,” I said. “If that’s what he decides, I will help effectuate the transfer, but only for the purposes of protecting Charlie.”
“Splendid. And in return?”
“You will go to your client immediately and give him a message for me.”
“And what would that be, Victor?”
“You tell him I’m coming.”
Lavender Hill tilted his head for a moment and then let out a huge, acrid laugh. There was a warning in the laugh, but a real delight, too, and it was loud enough to draw attention, which he never seemed to mind. After his laughter had subsided, the smile remained, even as he shook his head at me as if I were a naughty boy and he was amused at my naughtiness.
“I was completely wrong about you,” said Lavender Hill. “You are a barroom brawler after all.”
45
Family court, that last bastion of civility, where mothers and fathers work unceasingly, with goodwill and decorum, to find custodial arrangements in the best interests of their children. Sure, and hockey is played by dainty men with fabulous teeth.
We were in family court, waiting for Judge Sistine to show up, sitting around and killing time. Much of a trial lawyer’s day is spent killing time, which just then suited me fine. It was Bradley Hewitt’s day to testify in his custody suit with Theresa Wellman, and I was a bit short on material.
After Theresa Wellman stepped down from the stand, Beth had spent the intermittent trial days granted us by Judge Sistine putting on a torrent of evidence about Theresa’s rehabilitation, her new
job, her new house, her new life. We had shown, about as well as could be shown, that letting Belle live part-time with her mother might not be a total disaster. But the judge would have to decide more than simply whether Theresa could take care of her daughter. She would have to decide whether joint custody, as opposed to keeping Belle with Bradley full-time, was in the child’s best interests. Bradley Hewitt, with his suit and manners, his fine house and his high-paying job, would certainly put on a good show. And, to be honest, I didn’t quite know how to prove joint custody a better solution. But I had a plan, and killing time was part of it.
Bradley Hewitt, self-satisfied and self-assured, was sitting beside his attorney, Arthur Gullicksen, at the counsel table. His entourage was lined up like black-suited ducks on the bench behind them. Gullicksen passed me a confident smile just as the courtroom doors opened.
We all turned and looked. It was Jenna Hathaway.
I turned back and checked out Gullicksen. His face took on a puzzled expression. He knew her, of course he did. I would have told him all about her, except I checked and found out I didn’t need to. One of his clients, an upper-crust Main Liner from an old, distinguished family, had been hiding assets from his wife, which was bad enough, but he had also been hiding them from the IRS. Jenna Hathaway had descended like an avenging angel and banged him into the Federal Correctional Institution at Morgantown for a good seven years. I let Gullicksen sit there and puzzle it out for a moment before I stood and walked toward Jenna.
“Thanks for coming,” I said quietly.
“Are you sure this is a good place to talk?” she said.
“No problem. The judge is forever handling some emergency childcare issue. This case has been held over longer than Cats. Did you look at the cooperation agreement?”
“Totally insufficient, and you have some gall to even try to pass this off as complete. I attached a few pages.”
“I thought you might,” I said. “Let me see what you added, and I’ll get back to you.”
She reached into her briefcase, pulled out the big red file folder in which I had delivered to her the agreement. As I took hold of it, I glanced at Gullicksen. With his eyes still on the two of us, he was now speaking very quickly to his client.
“I put in language regarding Charlie’s testimony and possible punishments concerning Chantal Adair,” said Jenna.
“Were you unreasonable?”
“You might think so.”
“Don’t be upset if I have some changes of my own.”
“You said you had something for me?”
I directed her attention to Bradley Hewitt, who was now staring at us with quiet alarm. I pointed at him, subtly enough so it wasn’t obvious, obvious enough so he couldn’t miss that I was pointing. “Do you know who that is?”
“No,” she said.
“His name is Bradley Hewitt. Your office is investigating him in that pay-to-play investigation where you guys bugged the mayor’s office and got caught. He’s one of the go-betweens the mayor uses, and he’s testifying today. You might want to listen in on what he says.”
“It’s not my case.”
“I’m sure the U.S. Attorney would appreciate knowing what he testifies to today.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Could be,” I said.
She looked at the courtroom door, checked her watch. “Okay, sure. Thanks, Victor.”
I waved the file. “And thanks for bringing this.”
With the big red file folder clutched to my chest, I walked back down the aisle, pulled out the chair at counsel table, started to sit. Gullicksen was at my side before my butt could settle.
“What is she doing here?” he said.
“It’s a public courtroom,” I said. “Here for the show, I suppose.”
“What’s in the file?”
“Stuff,” I said. “Odds and ends.”
“I won’t let you ask about anything involving his business.”
“If his business is illegal and he is under investigation, don’t you think that could impact the custody decision?”
“This is totally out of bounds.”
“I practice law the way I play golf. Do me a favor, Arthur, and ask your client how he likes the veal chop at La Famiglia.”
At that moment Judge Sistine decided to grace us with her presence. “All rise.” We all rose. She brusquely made her way to the bench. “Be seated.” We all sat.
“Wellman v. Hewitt,” said the clerk.
“Where are we, people?” said the judge. “I seem to remember we were going to hear from Mr. Hewitt today. Are you ready, Mr. Gullicksen?”
“Can we have a moment, Your Honor?” said Gullicksen.
“I’ve already given you a half hour by my unavoidable tardiness. How much more could you need?”
Gullicksen glanced at me and then said, “Certain statements made by Mr. Carl seem to indicate there is room for a settlement to this dispute. I think it might be in everyone’s interest to explore the matter.”
“How long will it take?” said the judge.
“Can you give us fifteen minutes?” said Gullicksen.
“Fine. And I must say, Mr. Gullicksen, it warms my heart to see the parties trying to work together for the benefit of their child. You have your fifteen minutes.”
“WHAT DOES this all mean, Mr. Carl?” said Theresa Wellman as we waited in the hallway for Gullicksen to continue to hammer sense into his client’s perfectly groomed skull.
“It means we’re going to come to some sort of an agreement,” I said, “as long as you don’t get greedy.”
“What about weekends, Theresa?” said Beth. “That’s what Bradley’s attorney is trying to convince Bradley to agree to. Let Belle stay with Bradley during the week and continue going to the private school she attends.”
“I want her all the time,” said Theresa. “She’s my daughter.”
“And she’s Bradley’s daughter, too,” said Beth. “Taking care of her during the week might compromise your job. This way you’ll have her back in your life and you can continue to build on the progress you’ve made. But if we push too hard, and Bradley says no, you could end up with nothing. Take this as a gift and see how it works out.”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it,” said Beth. She checked her watch. “You have another ten minutes to decide to say yes.”
As we watched Theresa Wellman walk away, a slight slide of victory in her step, Beth said, “What was in that red file folder?”
“Charlie Kalakos’s cooperation agreement.”
“Remind me never to get sued by you,” she said. “I had the house inspection yesterday.”
“How’d it go?”
“The boiler is a ruin, the water pipes need replacing, there’s a leak in the roof.”
“So you’re nixing the deal?”
“Of course not. Sheila was with me and was thrilled. She’s getting the price reduced.”
“Beth, the house is a wreck.”
“The inspector said its bones were good.”
“It’s a house, not a supermodel.”
“My mortgage was approved, we’re having the closing next week. Will you come and be my lawyer?”
“Isn’t this whole thing a little hasty?”
“Sheila says it’s a great opportunity.”
“Sheila’s a Realtor, she has the scruples of a mollusk.”
“I like her.”
“So do I, actually, but that’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“Do you really think a house is going to solve whatever it is you need to solve?”
“Did you see how happy Theresa was? She really did change her life, didn’t she?”
“Let’s hope so for her daughter’s sake.”
“She’s an inspiration. If she can do it, I can do it.”
“And a house is the ticket?”
“It’s a start. During the inspection I was walking through all the roo
ms, imagining the way they’ll look after I settle in. The way, during parties, everyone will be hanging out in my new kitchen.”
“You don’t have parties.”
“But I will, with a house.”
“And the kitchen is a pit.”
“It gets morning light.”
“In April.”
“I was imagining the way my friends will stay over in the guest bedroom. I was imagining the way, whenever I wanted, I could work from home in the home office.”
“Any fantasies about the nursery?”
“Do you have a problem with my buying a house, Victor?”
Did I? Good question. Was I really worried that she was looking to real estate to solve an existential dilemma and bound to be disappointed? Or was I simply jealous that she was getting a house and starting a life when I seemed incapable of doing that for myself? And why had it suddenly gotten so difficult between us?
“No, Beth,” I said. “No problem. It’s a great fit.”
“What about the closing?”
“I’ll be there,” I said. “I promise.”
46
We return now to the curious case of Sammy Glick.
Why, you’re a regular Sammy Glick, had said Agnes LeComte during our little tête-à-tête on the edge of Rittenhouse Square. I had an idea of what the old buzzard had in mind, the slow, acid drip of condescension in her tone pretty much said it all. I hadn’t reacted much at the time, one thing I had learned over the years was to measure my responses to the insults that came my way, but it registered, yes it did. And I figured I’d go right to the source to get the full measure of her slight. So after running the name through my computer, I picked up a copy of What Makes Sammy Run? from the bookstore on my way to the airport. I was flying to Rochester. Business or pleasure?
It was Rochester. What the hell do you think?
“I TOLD YOU on the phone I had nothing to say to you,” said Serena Chicos. She was a small dark woman, fifty-some years of age, pretty and slim, with the sharp eyes and tense mouth of someone who had become used to giving directions and having them followed.
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