"And if that doesn't work, are there other backups?"
"We're building them day by day," said Prescott. "If we need to go that route we'll let you know."
"Shouldn't I know now?"
"No," said Moore. "There are things only Prescott is to know."
"We're building a very complex piece of machinery to get both our clients off, Victor," continued the professorial Prescott. "And it's not enough to end with an acquittal. These men are politicians, they must end the trial smelling like virgins, do you understand? Jimmy Moore has to step out of that courtroom cleansed of any taint, risen in stature, ready for a run at the mayor. Now we can't have you going out half-cocked, stirring up Eggert, getting in the way of the construction of our machine."
"Eggert didn't know I was there," I said. "I went through Slocum."
"Eggert knows," said Moore. "The bastard knows everything. He's got more spies in the DA's office than I do."
"So now we're all on board," said Prescott. "Each ready to do our duty. Any further questions, Victor?"
"Just one," I said.
Prescott closed his eyes in exasperation and shook his head. Moore glared. Chet Concannon continued to avoid my gaze. What they all wanted just then, I knew, was for me to shut up and take whatever they were giving with gratitude. But something wasn't right here. Chuckie Lamb's slip of the tongue had got me to thinking and what I was thinking about just then, like what I thought about most often in those days, was money.
"Ruffing says he turned over half a million dollars before he backed out," I said. "CUP's records showed they only received two hundred and fifty thou. What I was wondering is what happened to the rest."
"Your job here is not to wonder," snapped Jimmy Moore. "Your job is to just follow along. I thought Chet made that clear already."
"I told him," said Chester.
"Well, maybe you better tell him again."
"There's no need," I said.
"You are to do nothing, absolutely nothing," said Moore, dumping his ashes on top of the ravioli, his voice rising in anger. "You're getting paid a lot of money to do absolutely nothing and that's all you better do. I'm not going to have some skinny-assed geek with a hard-on for my girl sending me to jail because he gets in the way of my high-priced attorney. The only reason you're here is because Prescott told me you would stay out of his way."
"I told Jimmy and Chester," said Prescott, with the false conciliation of a State Department spokesman, "that I thought you were bright enough to grasp our defense and a sharp enough trial attorney to realize the importance of letting me try the entire case."
"Do you got it now, asshole?" said Moore.
"That's enough, Jimmy," said Chester. "He understands."
"Oh my," said Moore with a laugh. "He's crying. I see a tear."
"Enough," said Chet sharply.
"I'm not crying," I said as I wiped my eyes with a napkin. "It's just an allergic reaction to the smoke. And I don't have a hard-on for your girl."
"You could have fooled me," said Moore. "Walking in here with a billy club inside your pants. You better choose here and now. Up or down, boy? It's your choice. You step out of line and you won't be able to find a client to save your life. You play ball and I can send a lot of business your way. A lot of business. It's already started, hasn't it?"
"Did you call the Bishops?" asked Prescott matter-of-factly.
"Yes," I said, understanding now exactly what the position of outside counsel for the Valley Hunt Estates deal entailed.
"It's a great opportunity for a young lawyer trying to make a name for himself," said Prescott.
"Not to mention the money," said Moore.
"We have to work as a team," said Prescott.
"If that's what my client wants," I said.
"That's what he wants," said Moore. "Isn't that right, Chet?"
"That's what I want," said Chet, now looking at me square in the face.
"All right," I said. "Whatever my client wants. But the jury's going to be asking the same question I just did."
"We'll tell them there wasn't any other money," said Prescott matter-of-factly as he folded a red napkin. "Ruffing simply exaggerated the amount in his testimony. His accountant advised him that money paid to an extortionist is a deductible expense, so like every other American he lied on his taxes and now he's stuck with it."
"You can prove that?" I asked.
"Just keep out of my way, Victor," said Prescott coldly.
"So, everything's settled then, right?" said Moore. "No more trips to the DA's office, right? No more questions. No more freelancing, right?"
"That's right," I said.
"That's damn right," said Jimmy Moore. "Now, have some wine, Victor." He poured a blood-red Chianti into my glass. "There's plenty more where that came from. And finish your veal. I insist."
I had lost whatever appetite I once held, and the sight of Moore's ashes sinking into the ravioli gravy made me positively nauseous, but still I was hacking into the meat with a steak knife when Veronica returned. She smiled as she walked in, glanced at me with a touch of concern, and sat down.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said.
"Not at all," said Moore. "Victor was just telling us how much he was enjoying his chop."
18
"THIS ISN'T THE WAY," I said from the back seat of the limousine. I was alone in the car except for Henry, Moore's driver. With the partition down I could see the back of his head, nappy hair cut short, thick neck, a set of tiny ears. "I told you Twenty-second and Spruce."
"I be knowing where you live at, mon, believe me," said Henry in his lilting island accent. "But is some business I need first to do."
"Can't it wait until you take me home?"
"No, mon. Just you sit back and be resting yourself. We be done here quick."
I was too tired and nauseous to argue. From the restaurant we had gone to a bar and then to a place on the river and then to a private club above a storefront off South Street, where the booths had curtains and the lights were low. Through the whole of the evening, whenever Jimmy wasn't looking, Veronica rubbed her hand across my crotch. Prescott had left us in the restaurant, and I too had tried to leave, but Moore insisted and Veronica smiled and against all my judgment I tagged along. Because the thing was, I knew, somewhere in my weak-willed heart, I just knew that tagging along with Jimmy Moore was exactly what I wanted to do. Jimmy was probably crooked and Chester was most likely his accomplice and Veronica was definitely dangerous, but sitting in those clubs, drinking champagne, laughing my forced laugh, stealing cigarettes, sitting in those clubs, I again felt the knot in my stomach ease and the ice melt. I couldn't actually say I was enjoying myself after the browbeating I had been given at the restaurant, but for all his faults Jimmy knew something about living I had never learned, something I wanted desperately to learn.
"Have another drink," Jimmy had said as he filled my glass with champagne. There were others at the table with us now, young girls with bare legs who slurped their champagne loudly, two well-dressed black men, doctors in business with the city, I was told, and, of course, my buddy Chuckie Lamb, who glared at me the whole of our time together.
"I've had enough," I said even as the foam slipped over the top of my glass. "Really."
"Your lawyer's very stuffy," said Veronica to Chester.
"It's the profession," said Chet.
"Look over there," said Moore. A thin-shouldered bald man was leaning over a table, talking earnestly to a young woman with pretty, pouting lips. "Tom Bismark, managing partner of Blaine, Cox, Amber and Cox. Who's that he's with?"
"I think that's his wife," said Chester.
"How unusual," said Veronica.
"His third wife."
"I thought he moved out with his secretary," said Moore.
"He did," barked Chuckie Lamb. "He's here with his wife, cheating on his mistress."
"You have to admire a scoundrel who can't even be faithful to his unfaithfulness," said
Moore. "What about you, Victor?"
"Not married," I said.
"You can still cheat even if you're single."
"I'm pretty loyal."
"You're a boy scout, is that it?"
"I was, as a matter of fact."
"I was never a boy scout," said Moore. "I was too passionate for the boy scouts. There was too much I wanted to hold." He leaned over to Veronica and with his hand turned her face toward him and kissed her with an open mouth. To see it knotted my stomach again.
"How's your wife doing, Councilman?" I said.
Veronica's eyes bugged out at me even as she was kissing Moore, but he just laughed when he was through. "Very fine, thank you, Victor. So nice of you to be concerned."
"I find her very sweet and very sad," I said. "Lonely, I think."
"She is all of that and more," said Jimmy. "But tell me something, Victor, how much sadness can we endure before we run for the light?" He snapped his fingers and one of the young girls with bare legs quickly threw her arms around my neck and her tongue in my ear.
"Hey, Chuckie," said the councilman. "Victor here thinks you killed that lousy ballplayer."
"Oh, he does, does he?" said Chuckie.
"You mean Zack?" said one of the girls. "He was so sweet. Why would you do something like that, Chuckie?"
Jimmy started laughing, losing control as he laughed harder, so hard he could barely get out the words, "Victor thinks you're a murderer, Chuckie."
"Victor better be careful," said Chuckie, looking at me with an unkind eye. "He might just be right."
I had left finally, feeling the tug of too much work and not enough time, the tug of responsibility, downing the last of my champagne and staggering out of the club into the cold misty night. I was looking for a cab on the deserted street when Henry came from behind me and grabbed my arm and led me to the limousine.
So we were traveling north now, across Arch, under the 5th Street tunnel, into the ragged and unlighted sections of Northern Liberties. It was after midnight and still kids sat out on the stoop and young men leaned against boarded up buildings, looking suspiciously into the darkened limousine windows, and teens loitered in groups in the middle of the street, illuminated by our headlights as if caught in twin beams of unreality, unwillingly moving aside as the limousine slid through.
"Where are we going, Henry?"
"We be there soon, no problem."
"I'm starting to worry."
"You with me, mon. You safer than safe."
Northern Liberties was where my grandfather Abraham and his parents, fresh off the boat from Russia, had settled. It was a poor Jewish section then, crowded and hubbubed, Philadelphia's answer to the Lower East Side. Marshall Street: kosher butchers and discount clothiers and vegetable carts parked wheel to wheel, all catering to the immigrant families crowded four to a row house. My great-grandfather had learned to cobble in a shtetl outside Kiev and so in America he repaired shoes in a little store on Marshall Street, just north of Poplar, and my grandfather shortened his name and went into retail, working the store the whole of his life, even as the neighborhood changed and he moved with his family to the new Jewish paradise in Logan. Logan is no longer a paradise and Northern Liberties has fallen into such disrepair that Marshall Street is deserted and great swaths of the neighborhood are rubble. In the eighties there was an attempt at gentrification and some restaurants and stores opened up in the old Jewish center, but that too failed. There was nothing left of what my grandfather had seen as a little boy in his introduction to America.
We passed north out of Northern Liberties and through another neighborhood of boarded-up buildings and narrow, crowded streets and finally reached a corner that looked like a marketplace from hell. There were at least a hundred people hanging around, sitting on steps or patrolling the curb or just lolling on the outskirts of the crowd, heads jacking back and forth. In the streetlight the scene held a demented quality, unformed, chaotic, deeply dangerous. In front of us a flat-green Pontiac stopped and three kids jostled each other for a place at the driver's door. Money passed from the car to one of the kids and the kid ran over to an older man with dreadlocks and gave him the money. I watched the man nod to a different kid, who reached for something under a stoop and ran over to the car. In less than a minute from the time it had arrived, the flat-green Pontiac was on its way. Henry stopped the limo and immediately a kid started tapping at the closed window beside my head. Henry turned around and smiled at me.
"I be back, mon. You be taking things slow as they come."
He left.
I made sure my door was locked as I watched Henry approach the man in dreadlocks. They spoke for a moment. The man nodded and Henry went toward one of the houses, on the front step of which a group of very young women sat. The women wore blue jeans and leather jackets and gold. One woman had huge gold earrings, impossibly, painfully huge. Another had a gold necklace with chain links the size of manacles. When Henry arrived at the house he leaned over and kissed one of the women on the cheek. He patted another on the head and chatted a moment before squeezing through the group and entering the house. Passing him on the way out was a skinny young man with a high nervous step and sunglasses. I was watching Henry enter the house when the front door of the limousine opened and a young black man with the shoulders of a lion jumped into the driver's seat.
"Where's we off to now, Chauncey?" he said in a thin, slippery voice.
"Get out of here," I said.
He turned and smiled at me and the next moment I heard the click of the door locks and my door opened. A very thin man in a fine brown pinstriped suit leaned in the open door and said, "Move over."
I moved over. He sat down beside me.
His skin was dark brown, his fingers long and thin. There was about him a distinct air of elegance, the way he crossed his legs, the way he clasped his hands close to his chest. But more than anything he was thin, spectrally thin, droopy-eyed and gaunt, so thin it was impossible to tell his age; he could have been twenty-five, he could have been fifty.
"What can I do for you, friend?" asked the man in a deep, soothing voice.
"I'm just waiting for someone," I said. "He'll be right back. I don't want anything else."
"Generally, white boys in limousines down here want something."
"I just want to get out of here."
"Don't we all."
"Where we going?" asked the young man in the front.
"Around," said the thin man.
"Shit," I said.
The engine shivered quietly to life and the limousine lurched forward, almost running down a young girl carrying a two-year-old boy in her arms as she wandered toward the marketplace.
"Jesus, take the car, I don't care," I said with panic in my voice. "Just let me out first."
"We only going for a ride," said the kid up front.
"Drive carefully, Wayman," said the thin man. "We don't want to scratch the councilman's car."
"Then you know whose car this is."
"Oh yes. Let's introduce ourselves. Call me Mr. Rogers."
"Mr. Rogers," said Wayman with a cackle. "I like that."
Mr. Rogers reached out a hand. Unsure of what to do, I shook it.
"Victor Carl."
"Well, Victor Carl, welcome to my neighborhood."
"Mr. Rogers," cackled Wayman again.
"What do you think?" asked Mr. Rogers, gesturing out his window.
I looked around at the bombed-out hulks of narrow row houses, some collapsing in on themselves, others boarded up with plywood, crumbling steps, weeds rising like bushes from the sidewalks, empty bottles scattered. An old man, lips working over his toothless gums, sat on a metal chair and stared at the limousine as we passed.
"It's fine, I guess," I said.
"Fine for us, right?"
"No. I didn't mean that."
"Calm down, Victor." He laughed a deep, surprisingly warm laugh.
"I just want to get out of here."
"An
d you will. Calm down, enjoy the ride."
He pulled down a panel on the door, revealing the limousine's bar. There were decanters of liquor and glasses and bottles. He took one of the glasses and looked at the decanters.
"Now which one's the scotch," he said to himself. He reached for one, took off the crystal top, and poured. He took a sip and smiled. "That's what I like about the councilman, always the best liquor. Turn here, Wayman, and remember this car is as long as a school bus."
We turned down a side alley and then back up 6th Street, making a loop.
"I just wanted to have a little talk," said Mr. Rogers. "Nothing too serious. You like being a lawyer, Victor?"
"How did you know?"
"I would have been a damn good lawyer," he continued. "Would have knocked aside your ass in court, I know that, Victor. See, Wayman, man. It's like I've been telling you. You get back in school, you can be anything you want. Even fools like Victor here can become million-dollar lawyers."
"Would's I also have to dress like him?" asked Wayman from the front seat, looking back at me in the rearview mirror.
Mr. Rogers sized me up and down, my scuffed wing tips, my shiny blue suit, my striped polyester tie. "Point taken," said Mr. Rogers. "Where'd you get those shoes?"
"You want them, take them. Anything. Just leave me alone."
"Last thing I want is those shoes. Where did you pick those flippers?"
"Florsheim."
He snickered. "Turn up here."
"I want you to stop the car and let me out, now," I said loudly. The crack about my shoes had somehow set me off. I sat forward in the seat. "This is kidnapping. I insist you stop."
"Victor, trust me," said Mr. Rogers. "You don't want us to let you off here."
I looked around. Two kids were shadowboxing in a corner under a dim streetlight on an otherwise deserted street.
"Maybe you're right," I said, slumping back.
"You know, you are messing in things way above your head, things you can't even begin to understand. No sir. All politicians are liars, don't you think?"
"There are some honest ones, I guess," I said.
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