Grave Designs

by Michael A. Kahn

I said nothing.

  “He didn’t seem to see the connection,” she continued. “God, Freud probably makes everyone too suspicious. I mean, I don’t think Graham was into some kind of incest trip, you know. It’s just that I saw the connection immediately—another beauty queen named Cynthia.” She shook her head. “I’ve had some weird requests from my clients. But I wasn’t prepared to play his sister for him. I couldn’t have handled that number. But, like I say, he never brought it up again.”

  We were both quiet for a while. “What about the beauty contest you were in?” I asked. “What exactly did he say about it?”

  Cindi held out the pack of Virginia Slims. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks. I’m trying to quit.”

  “Me too. I quit in January. And in March. And in May.” She paused to light a cigarette. “As I told you, it was strange the way he brought it up so often. But the first time he did, he said something really weird.”

  “What?”

  She blew out a thin stream of smoke that disappeared in the soft breeze. “It was one night after we were, uh, after we were done. Last summer, I think. Graham was standing in front of the mirror in the hallway, knotting his tie. He asked me out of the blue, ‘Do you think luck had anything to do with it?’ ‘With what?’ I said. ‘The beauty pageant,’ he said, ‘the other girl winning, you finishing third runner-up.’ It sort of caught me off guard. I hadn’t really thought much about luck one way or the other. And I was really surprised that he—that Graham Anderson Marshall—would even know who the third runner-up was. Or the winner, for that matter. I sort of shrugged and said, ‘I guess it was the luck of the draw.’ Well, he turned around and looked at me, his eyes kind of sad. And then he said—and I won’t forget these words—he said real slowly, ‘It was the luck of the draw. I’m sorry about that now. But then again, maybe it brought me you.’ Weird, huh?”

  “That is odd,” I finally said. For a moment I had thought I was on to something, but now I was even more confused.

  “Did you enjoy working for him?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said. “He was a tough bastard. Very demanding. When he wanted something done, you had to do it. Right away. No excuses. I don’t think he ever got used to a woman litigator.”

  “Did he ever try anything with you?”

  “Nope. He wasn’t like that.” I paused. “In that way he was different. With a lot of male lawyers, particularly partners, there’s that undercurrent of sex. The way they look at you when they talk, the jokes they make, the hand on the shoulder.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Cindi asked.

  “Not now.”

  “Did you just break up?”

  “A few months ago.”

  “I could tell,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have your guard up. He must have hurt you.”

  “He did.”

  “Another woman, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “Creeps,” she said. “They’re like little boys in a candy store. Can’t keep their hands off the goodies.”

  “How about you?” I asked.

  “Me?” Cindi smiled and shook her head. “It would be like a busman’s holiday. Believe me, I treasure the nights alone. Away from them.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Maybe once I stop all this, maybe then.”

  I watched the old man swimming laps, his arms slowly heaving out of the water one by one.

  “Were you ever married?” Cindi asked.

  I shook my head.

  “How did you manage?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You’re smart, great-looking, nice body. You must have to fight them off.”

  I shrugged. “For me it’s been the wrong guy at the right time or the right guy at the wrong time.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Well, you start off back in high school looking for someone who’s cool,” I said. “Coolness is what counts. He has to dress cool, talk cool, and be in the in crowd. I had one. The quarterback of the high school team.”

  “Me too,” said Cindi.

  “Good-looking, great body, tiny brain.”

  “And lots of hand jobs.”

  We both laughed.

  “And then you get to college and you want an intellectual,” I said. “An intellectual soulmate. Someone you can discuss Sartre with, someone who believes that America is a totalitarian fascist dictatorship. You know the type. And then, if you’re lucky enough to outgrow that, you finally realize that what you really want is someone who’s—well, who’s nice.”

  Cindi smiled. “Preferably a sweet guy with a cute tush.”

  “Yeah. A nice guy with a great bod who prefers Robert Lowell to Car & Driver.”

  “You like Robert Lowell too?”

  “What do you mean too?” I asked.

  “Graham Marshall loved one of his poems.”

  “You and Marshall read poetry together?”

  “Not exactly. Graham brought me an anthology of poems. It was part of his Pygmalion number. He read me ‘For the Union Dead.’ Then he told me all about Colonel Robert Gould Shaw. Do you know who Shaw was?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Except that he was a white Civil War soldier who headed an all-black regiment for the North.”

  “Marshall told me all about him. It’s a great story.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “Shaw was a real Boston blueblood. A New England aristocrat. When the Civil War started, he enlisted. In the spring of 1863 they made him a colonel and asked him to head up the first all-black regiment. He took his blacks to Folly Island that summer. Isn’t that perfect: Folly Island. The Union troops attacked Fort Wagner, and Colonel Shaw and his black troops led the charge. Shaw was wounded going up the hill. He reached the top, waved his sword, and died. More than half of his troops died with him. They were all buried—Shaw and his soldiers—in a shallow trench near the sea. A couple of years later the sea washed away the trench and all the bodies, including Shaw’s.”

  “Didn’t they build a statue honoring him in Boston?” I asked.

  Cindi nodded. “After the war ended, a group of Boston citizens raised money to build the monument. To Colonel Shaw and his men. It took them almost thirty years to do it. I’ve seen the monument. It’s really beautiful.” Cindi stubbed out her cigarette. “Isn’t it an incredible story?”

  “It is,” I said.

  “And what was just as incredible was the gift Marshall gave me.”

  “What?”

  “Come on upstairs and I’ll show it to you,” she said, checking her watch. “I’ve been out here long enough already.”

  ***

  “I’m supposed to meet a guy for lunch,” I said to Cindi as we stepped out of the elevator. “Just a friend. From Abbott and Windsor. Why don’t you join us? You’d love him. He’s really a character, and he knows something about the case.”

  She unlocked her front door and looked at me.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Grab some clothes and come on. It’ll be fun.”

  Cindi paused, her hand on the doorknob. Then she shrugged and said, “Why not? Maybe I will.”

  She walked into her bedroom, untying the top of her string bikini. She came back into the living room a few minutes later, wearing a pair of lavender bikini panties and a silk blouse which, unbuttoned, wafted open behind her. She was carrying a poster board about the size of a newspaper.

  “Marshall gave me this,” she said. “I keep it in my bedroom.”

  Dry-mounted on the poster board was the front page of the Boston Commonwealth, dated May 29, 1863. It consisted of ten columns of small, densely packed type with no illustrations.

  “I don’t know where he found it,” she said, buttoning her blouse. “But look at this story.” She pointed. “I
’ll go grab some jeans and sandals.”

  The story was in the middle of the page:

  PRESENTATION OF COLORS

  TO THE FIFTY-FOURTH REGIMENT

  Thursday the 28th of May was a day to be remembered by all Massachusetts men who love liberty and rejoice in its triumphs: for on that day the great stigma of prejudice against color was officially removed.

  Led by their valiant young commander, Col. Robert Gould Shaw, the 54th Regiment broke camp at an early hour and marched to the Common, which they reached at half past ten o’clock, stopping before the State House for the officials, who were there to review the troops and present the colors. Gov. Andrew and staff, His Honor Mayor Lincoln, and many officers and civilians of note greeted the regiment.

  A great multitude, five or six thousand at least, assembled to witness the ceremony. Among the number we saw the well-known leaders of the Abolitionists—Garrison, Philips, Quincy, May, Douglass and others, and besides them many names that Boston delights to honor—Lowell, and Putnam, and Jackson, and Cabot.

  The men of the colored regiment were well armed with Enfield rifles, were certainly well drilled, and for military bearing and general good appearance certainly would compare well with most new regiments who have passed through this city.

  Prayer having been offered by Rev. Mr. Grimes, Gov. Andrew presented the various flags to young Col. Shaw with a lengthy and inspiring speech. The handsome and brave commander of the 54th Regiment responded:

  Your Excellency, we accept these flags with feelings of deep gratitude. They will remind us not only of the cause we are fighting for and of our country, but of our friends we have left behind us. We thank our Lord for the opportunity to show that you have not made a mistake in entrusting the honor of the State to a colored regiment—the first State that has sent one to the war.

  The line of the march was then taken up to Battery Wharf, where the troops embarked with little delay on the DeMolay. The Steamer sailed about four o’clock yesterday afternoon.

  I leaned the poster board against the couch. What was the reason for Marshall’s keen interest in all this? Why had he cared about a black regiment from the Civil War? Cindi seemed to think it was nothing more than an odd little gift from one of her clients. And maybe that’s all it was.

  The Bar-Double-R Ranch Restaurant is a noisy chili joint sunk in the basement of a city parking garage. The garage butts up against the Woods Theater, whose massive white marquee announced this week’s triple feature: Texas Chainsaw Massacre- Part VI, Kung Fu Killers, and Return of the Coed Death Squad.

  “You know, I think I was offered a part in Coed Death Squad,” Cindi said. “I got some really weird movie offers after that beauty pageant.”

  Cindi followed me down the stairs into the dimly lit restaurant, past the beeps and thumps of the video games, back to where Benny was sitting. He was at a wooden table next to a tiny stage on which, according to the placard, “The Sundowners, Chicago’s finest country-western group, get down to fundamentals each weeknight from sundown to midnight.”

  I introduced Cindi to Benny, who was momentarily rendered speechless. He struggled to his feet, almost upsetting the small table, and shook her hand, his eyes blinking. Cindi and I got in line, picked up our orders of chili, and returned to Benny’s table. He had ordered us each a bottle of Stroh’s.

  “God, Benny,” I said, “how can you eat all that junk?” Spread out on the table before him were two bowls of chili, a hamburger with french fries, and a chili dog.

  “This is their Flatus Special,” Benny said. “I figure by about three this afternoon I’ll be ready for liftoff.” He turned to Cindi, who was laughing and choking on a mouthful of beer. “We’re a classy group of guys over at Abbott and Windsor.”

  “So what’s the good news?” I asked. “My secretary told me you had some great announcement.”

  “I can’t believe it, Rachel.” Benny took a big swallow of beer. “Out of the blue I get a call from the assistant dean of DePaul Law School. First time I heard from them.” He turned to Cindi. “I’ve been trying to get a faculty position. I sent out résumés and copies of my law review articles to every law school in the western hemisphere.” He turned back to me. “Anyway, the guy calls me up and offers me a faculty position, starting next January.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No shit, Rachel. A two-year appointment teaching contract law and a seminar on class actions. Can you believe it? It’ll mean a big salary cut, but it’s worth it. I said yes on the spot.”

  “Congratulations, Benny,” I said.

  “That’s super,” Cindi added.

  “When are you going to leave the firm?” I asked.

  “Probably around October first. I’ll take a couple of months off before I start teaching. Do something fun for a change. Maybe a long weekend at Myron’s House of Latex with the Rockettes.”

  “How about a month of electroshock therapy at Bellevue Hospital?” I said. I took a sip of beer. “Who knows, maybe Cindi will be one of your law students.”

  “Cindi?” Benny asked, looking at her.

  Cindi shrugged.

  “She’s thinking about going to law school,” I said.

  “Good grief,” said Benny in mock wonder. “A beautiful shiksa with brains.” He put his hand over his heart and rolled his eyes heavenward. “At last, Lord. You have sent me a sign.”

  We ate our lunches, making small talk about law schools and the Cubs, who were beginning their annual late-summer swoon.

  “Forget the Cubs,” I said. “But watch out for my Cardinals. They’re going to do it again this year. And this time they’ll win the World Series.”

  Benny looked at Cindi and shook his head. “That’s Rachel’s tragic flaw. She’s smart, tough, gorgeous, great legs. All-world legs. But the woman loves the Cardinals. Even named her dog after their shortstop.”

  “Don’t knock it,” Cindi said to Benny. “I grew up in Peoria rooting for the Cards. My dad used to take me down to Busch Stadium twice a summer.”

  “You’re both depraved.” Benny took a final swig from his beer and ordered another round for all of us. “So, you’re helping Rachel with this Canaan thing,” Benny said to Cindi.

  “A little,” she said. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”

  “Benny knows about the heart attack at your apartment,” I said.

  Benny coughed. “Did you know Jean Huber?” he asked quickly.

  “Not, uh, professionally,” Cindi said. “But I knew he was at your firm. He really did die of a heart attack in the office, didn’t he?”

  “Middle of the day,” I explained. “He always kept his door shut. His secretary wasn’t allowed in his office when the door was closed and he was on the phone.”

  “He apparently had the heart attack around mid-morning,” Benny said. “He must have knocked over the phone when he fell. As far as his secretary knew, he was on the phone, because his extension light was lit up on her phone. Around four that afternoon one of the other lawyers knocked on his door and walked in. And there he was, laid out flat on his back, stiff as a carp.”

  “God,” said Cindi.

  “Your friend Marshall almost killed Huber with one of his practical jokes,” I said to Cindi.

  “Marshall was a practical joker?” Cindi asked.

  “When he was younger,” Benny said. “He was infamous for his practical jokes.”

  “What did he do to Huber?” Cindi asked.

  “Huber and Marshall were down in Kansas City for some sort of court hearing,” Benny explained. “They had just checked into the Crown Center Hotel, and the two of them were up in Huber’s suite. I guess Huber needed some cash for the night. He told Marshall he was going downstairs to buy a magazine and then he was going to the front desk to cash a check. As soon as Huber leaves the room, Marshall calls downstairs and tells the fron
t desk that he’s Jean Huber and that some big guy in a gray suit just broke into his room, beat him up, and stole his wallet and checkbook. Meanwhile, Huber goes down the elevator, stops in the gift shop, and then walks over to the front desk and tells them he wants to cash a check. Two minutes later Huber is surrounded by cops. They handcuff him, take him down to the station, and book him. Huber went berserk. The guy had an absolute shit hemorrhage in jail. Meanwhile, Marshall calls the mayor, who just happens to be an old law school buddy, fills him in on the joke, and then—about two hours later—Marshall goes down to the police station and gets Huber released.”

  “That’s terrible,” Cindi said.

  “Yeah,” Benny said. “But Huber never tried to get even. He was scared to death of Marshall. Most of the partners at Abbott and Windsor were. Marshall had this weird power over them, particularly the younger ones that he’d trained. They were like capons around him.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Paul Mason was sitting in my outer office chatting with my secretary when I returned from lunch.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him. Mary raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

  Paul stood up. “I was down in the Loop and thought I’d drop by to say hi. I just flew back from the West Coast.”

  “And your arms are killing you, huh?”

  He forced a laugh. “How are you?”

  “Fine.” Paul followed me into my office, carrying a gym bag. I sat down behind my desk, and he sat in the chair facing the desk. Paul was wearing a pink Lacoste shirt, khaki slacks, and sandals. He put his gym bag on the carpet by his chair.

  “You look great, Rachel.”

  “You don’t look so bad yourself.” He looked terrific. Steady, girl. “You screw a lot of California coeds this summer?”

  “Jesus, Rachel, that stuff is behind us.”

  “What do you mean us, kemosabe?”

  “I miss you, Rachel. I really do. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about us.”

  “Forget it, Paul. Things were going bad between us long before I caught you giving that private tutorial on the Kama Sutra.”

  “I know. And it was my fault, Rachel. I accept the blame. I guess I just wasn’t ready for that sort of relationship.”