***
As usual, Benny had exaggerated to the point of caricature. His Saint Armstrong bore little resemblance to the real U.S. Senator Armstrong. Douglas Armstrong, MD, was a totally unsentimental liberal, a man of passion without a hint of sappiness, an enthusiastic deer hunter who had cosponsored every significant piece of gun control legislation during his years in the Senate, a physician who had led the charge on healthcare reform, a hugely successful entrepreneur who refused to cross union picket lines, an indefatigable champion of freedom of choice who demanded that others respect his choices as well. His standard response to questions about his personal choices—whether they be a fondness for Cuban cigars, an occasional weekend gambling junket to Las Vegas, his African safari two years ago, or the ever-changing series of stunningly beautiful young women (mostly actresses and fashion models) who had graced his side and shared his bed during his years in Washington—was a blunt “None of your damn business.” For a politician, it was an absolutely stirring performance.
Frankly, women—including this woman—found him stirring for an entirely different reason, as well. Douglas Armstrong was, to put it bluntly, a very sexy man. He looked the way a United States senator ought to look: tall and rangy, with close-cropped gray hair, dark blue eyes, and angular, almost severe, features—a face chiseled out of stone. He didn’t merely look or act like a leader; he seemed the very embodiment of the word, which only enhanced his attractiveness. He was a widower. Edie, his wife of twenty-one years, had died of ovarian cancer two years before his first campaign for the Senate, and he had never remarried.
Ever since his reelection last year, when he defeated a conservative pro-life congressman from rural Missouri, the national media pundits had been commenting upon how “presidential” this Missouri senator seemed. Three nights ago, CBS Evening News did a feature on him that ended with Dan Rather observing, “For those who yearn for the promise of that brief, shining moment known as the Kennedy presidency, Douglas Armstrong must seem like Sir Percival himself, arriving at long last to reclaim the throne of Camelot.”
Notwithstanding the growing national interest in him, Armstrong refused to make the politically safe choice when it clashed with his moral code. This evening’s event was typical: he was the keynote speaker for a gathering on behalf of the Women’s Reproductive Choice Clinic, a controversial abortion clinic that had been the focus of constant picketing and occasional blockades by various pro-life activists and one attempted bombing by persons unknown. The fundraiser—complete with protesters out front, including two with large jars purportedly containing aborted fetuses—was precisely the sort of event that typical politicians avoid like the plague. Indeed, all had, I noted as I walked into the banquet hall. There was no elected official on the dais other than Senator Armstrong.
And certainly none could have matched his eloquence that evening. He had an unadorned, almost folksy speaking style—sort of the raspy country doctor come to town, but without a trace of the hick. His plain speaking style only magnified the power of his words as he described his own moral struggle with the abortion issue back in the early days of his medical practice and his eventual realization that the right choice for him (he chose not to perform the procedure) had no bearing on what was the right choice for anyone else. Neither he nor the government had any business malting that choice for the one person most affected: namely, the pregnant woman.
When it was over, I joined the faithful up at the dais, crowding around him to shake his hand. As silly and childish as it may seem, shaking Douglas Armstrong’s hand and looking into those cobalt blue eyes was just as exciting as the time, twelve years earlier, when I boarded the elevator at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel at the end of a day of depositions and found myself alone for three floors with Robert Redford.
I hung around to help the other volunteers with the cleanup. Then I followed David in my car to his house, ostensibly to look at that list of names that Bruce Rosenthal had given him. The list was upstairs in his study. We got as far as the living room downstairs.
Maybe it was the thrill of shaking hands with Douglas Armstrong after the speech, or the lingering excitement over our come-from-behind softball victory, or just my growing infatuation with David Marcus, but by the time we reached the living room and David turned to ask if I wanted something to drink, I was in the grip of pure lust. Apparently, so was he. He paused in mid-sentence, his eyes shifting from my face slowly downward. Then he reached out, grasped me by the waistband of my skirt and pulled me against him. Pressing my face into the hollow of his neck, I inhaled deeply as he crushed me against him and yanked up my skirt from behind.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Well, there are quickies and then there are quickies, but this was the quickie to end all quickies. We seemed to make love at warp speed. However long it took, it was totally focused and totally satisfying and, when it was over, totally relaxing.
As my senses gradually started functioning again, I realized that we were on the living room carpet, both of us still half-dressed. David rolled off me onto his back.
“That. Was. Wonderful,” I murmured as my breathing slowed to normal.
He reached over and took my hand.
I smiled at the ceiling and gave his hand a squeeze.
***
An hour later, yawning and still tingling, I pulled up the covers of my bed and leaned over to set the alarm. The digital clock read 12:11 a.m. Just then the phone rang.
I lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“I forgot to show you that list.” It was David.
I leaned back against the pillow and smiled. “You showed me something much better.”
“That was marvelous.”
“Magical,” I said dreamily. “You can just drop the list in the mail.” I sighed. “I feel so—so peaceful.”
“Sweet dreams, Rachel.”
“Goodnight, David.”
I gently replaced the phone and immediately fell asleep.
Chapter Three
Two days later, the hand-addressed envelope bearing David’s return address arrived in the morning mail, in the middle of a pile of attorney letters, court filings, bills, solicitations, bar association bulletins, and the rest of the daily postal impedimenta. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of bond paper and a small stick-on note from David. The note read, “Here’s that list Bruce gave me.” The document consisted of four columns of names:
I stared at the list, waiting for something to click. Nothing did. Leaning back in my chair, I pondered the document. Beth Shalom sounded like the name of a Jewish synagogue, and the two columns of names beneath it sure fit Abramawitz, Altman, Caplan, Cohen, Freidman, Gutterman—this was not the membership list for the First Baptist Church of St. Louis.
I buzzed my secretary on the intercom. “Jacki, would you bring in the Yellow Pages?”
“Be right in.”
A moment later, my secretary came wobbling in on two-inch pumps and handed me the Yellow Pages.
“Thanks,” I said. “Say, is that a new skirt?”
Jacki smiled demurely. “I bought it yesterday.” She turned slowly. “What do you think?”
I nodded. “Very nice. Especially the pleats.”
Two weeks ago I would have had trouble keeping a straight face, but I was starting to get used to my most unusual secretary. With maroon lipstick and nail polish to match the new skirt, Jacki Baird was probably the only legal secretary in town who had played linebacker on the varsity football team at Granite City High, was a member of the Panties-of-the-Month Club, could bench press 250 pounds and owned three blond wigs (including a Dolly Parton Deluxe).
At the time of our original job interview, Jacki Baird was Jack Baird—a night law school student at St. Louis University. Mr. Jack Baird had sandy brown hair, trimmed close, with long sideburns. He was in his early thirties, stood six feet three, weighed 240 pounds, had a
slight beer belly and definitely had the look of a Granite City steelworker, which is what he had been for several years between high school and college. Although I was initially put off by the idea of a male secretary—particularly a massive former steelworker—he won me over during the interview. Part of it was his skill, including a typing score of ninety-three words per minute. Part was his knowledge of the law—always a big plus in a legal secretary. And part was his homely but totally earnest features, including the most soulful pair of brown eyes this side of a basset hound.
Jack Baird became my secretary six weeks ago. By noon on his first day I was ready to offer up a thanksgiving sacrifice to the Gods of the Legal Profession. He was everything a busy attorney dreams of in a secretary: efficient, smart, and skilled, with good judgment, plenty of initiative, and a working knowledge of state and federal court procedures.
Three weeks later, at the end of a busy Friday, a somewhat diffident Jack Baird came into my office to inform me of a detail about himself that he hadn’t had the nerve to disclose during the job interview. To paraphrase the beer ad, it turned out that Jack Baird was everything I wanted in a legal secretary…and more. Specifically, he was a woman trapped in a man’s body. And in exactly twelve months, he explained, he would be traveling to a hospital in Colorado for the two-and-a-half-hour surgical procedure that would complete Jack’s transformation into Jacki. In order to qualify for the surgery, however, he was required (a) to live and work as a woman for a full year, and (b) to be on hormone therapy throughout that time. That meant, he had explained, that Jack was going to vanish forever over the weekend. He planned to spend Saturday and Sunday eliminating all traces—give away Jack’s clothes, cut Jack’s face out of all the pictures in the photo albums, take down all the books from the apartment bookshelves and add an “i” to the existing first name on the inside covers. With eyes averted he told me that he hoped that I would allow him to continue as my secretary, but that he would understand if I said no.
I thought he was joking.
When I realized he wasn’t, I also realized that I was trapped. How could I reject him without despising myself? I’m no angel, and I was certainly not thrilled at the prospect of having a secretary who looked like Dick the Bruiser in drag. Nevertheless, I told myself, how can I say no to him? Or her? Jack had been a truly wonderful secretary during our three weeks together, and I had developed real affection for him. So I shrugged and I forced a smile and I told him that I was looking forward to meeting Jacki on Monday morning.
I feared that the metamorphosis would produce a brassy drag queen, but the buxom blonde who showed up for work on Monday morning was just as earnest and sweet as the ex-steelworker who had departed for good the prior Friday afternoon. And now, three weeks later, we were far enough beyond our initial awkwardness that I hadn’t realized until after the fact that during our lunch today at a nearby restaurant the two of us had gone to the ladies’ room at the same time. Nevertheless, I did realize it on our way back to the office. It was a bit unsettling.
“I assume you want to file those interrogatories today?” Jacki asked as I opened the Yellow Pages.
I nodded. “Let’s serve them by mail.”
She smiled proudly. “I already have the stamps on the envelopes.”
As Jacki returned to her desk, I flipped to the heading for synagogues. There were listings for Beth Abraham and a Beth Hamedrosh, but none for Beth Shalom. On a hunch, I flipped back to the section on Cemeteries, Jewish. There was a Beth Hamedrosh Hagodol Cemetery, along with B’nai Amoona, Chesed Shel Emeth, Chevra Kadisha, but no Beth Shalom.
Then again, I reminded myself, Beth Shalom could still be a synagogue or a Jewish cemetery—just not located in St. Louis.
The other heading on the document was “Labadie Gardens.” That sounded local. There was a street in north St. Louis called Labadie. There was also a small Missouri town west of St. Louis called Labadie. I stared at the name. Labadie Gardens didn’t ring a bell. Maybe an apartment complex? Could these be lists of tenants? Again to the Yellow Pages, this time Apartments. There were listings for several Gardens, including one under L (Lavinia Gardens), but no Labadie Gardens. It was the same under Cemeteries: plenty of gardens—Bellerive Heritage Gardens, Chapel Hill Gardens, Laurel Hill Memorial Gardens, and St. Charles Memorial Gardens—but no Labadie Gardens. I flipped back to the listings for apartments. No Beth Shalom, either.
If Labadie Gardens were local, if it were indeed named after the street in north St. Louis, then it was probably located near its namesake, which would put it in a section of north St. Louis that had been black for as many years as I could remember. The names in the Labadie Gardens columns were not inconsistent with that location: Brown, Carter, Washington, Wells.
I closed the Yellow Pages and stared down at the list. Wherever and whatever Beth Shalom and Labadie Gardens were, I was completely stymied. The same was true for the headings above each column—“P/S” and “P/A.” I couldn’t even begin to guess what they meant, although I noted that Beth Shalom and Labadie Gardens each had a “P/S” column and a “P/A” column, and all four columns had the same number of names: twelve.
Twelve?
Mystified, I lifted the sheet of paper. It was heavy bond paper—an original document, not a photocopy.
Twelve?
The number meant nothing to me. The headings above the columns—“P/S” and “P/A”—meant nothing to me. The names Beth Shalom and Labadie Gardens meant nothing to me.
And yet this was the one document that Bruce Rosenthal had given to David Marcus. It obviously meant something to Bruce. Maybe David understood what it meant.
And even if he didn’t, I admitted to myself, it was a good enough excuse to call him. I dialed his number at the synagogue and his secretary answered.
“This is Rachel, Liz. Is he in?”
“He hasn’t come in yet, Rachel. Should I have him call you?”
“Sure. When do you expect him?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him yesterday and he hasn’t called here this morning.”
“Is he at home?”
“You might try him there. I’m just not sure. He could be doing a hospital visitation. One of our members had a bypass at St. Luke’s last Friday, another one is getting chemotherapy at St. John’s, poor thing. He could be seeing one of them. Or he might be at St. Louis U’s library. He’s been doing a lot of research there for a paper he’s writing. When he calls in, I’ll give him your message.”
I tried David’s home number and got his answering machine. I waited for the beep. “Hi, David. This is Rachel. I’m calling because I need the services of your impressive mental apparatus.” I lowered my voice. “Come to think of it, I could use the services of another impressive apparatus. So give me a call, you sexy rebbe.”
As soon as I hung up, the phone started ringing. I answered hopefully, but it was only my opponent in a securities fraud case, calling to complain about my response to his interrogatories.
“You call those answers, Rachel? Hell, I could get more information out of the Iraqi secret police.”
“Well, then, serve a set of interrogatories on them.”
“Come on, Rachel. Quit jerking me around.”
“What?” I said angrily, suddenly back full-throttle in the practice of my learned profession. “Me jerking you around? How ’bout a reality check here, Jerry?”
Chapter Four
It was close to 9:00 p.m. and we were sitting in the car outside my sister’s house. I placed my hand on his shoulder. “You were wonderful tonight.”
“You sound surprised.”
I shrugged. “To be honest, Benny, I had my concerns.” I turned to watch my niece, Jennifer, who had reached the front porch and was ringing the doorbell. We’d given her a ride home. “However,” I continued, “you were positively—well—”
“Judicial?”
�
�More than just judicial.” I paused to wave good-bye to Jennifer as my sister opened the front door. I turned back to Benny and smiled. “Toward the end there I was ready to nominate you for the next opening on the Supremes.”
Benny beamed.
He had been wonderful, too.
Thank God.
I’d had doubts from the moment he volunteered during the Passover seder dinner last month. We were all at my sister Ann’s house: Richie and Ann, their two children, my mother, my Aunt Becky, Benny, and me. During dinner my niece Jennifer described the moot court project and said her teacher needed two lawyers to serve as judges.
“Could you be one of the judges, Aunt Rachel?”
“Sure,” I told her. “I’d love to.”
“Oh, great. It’ll be so awesome having you there, Aunt Rachel.”
“Yo, little woman,” Benny said to Jennifer. “You need one more, right?”
She nodded uncertainly. “I guess so.”
He raised his eyebrows and beamed. “You mean, ‘I guess so, Your Honor.’ Wait until you see me in my black gown.” He turned to me, stroking his chin in feigned contemplation. “What do you think of pearls?”
I gave him a puzzled look. “What?”
“Pearls, dahling. With my black gown.” He pretended to mull it over. “Yes,” he said with a decisive nod. “Definitely pearls. And black pumps, of course.”
Later that night, just after we’d opened the door for Elijah, I took Jennifer aside to assure her that Benny was only kidding about the pearls and pumps.
Still, I’d had my doubts up until the event itself. After all, putting Benny in a room with a group of junior high school kids sounded like a volatile formula. Even under normal circumstances, it didn’t take much for Benny to assume the role of Id the Unchained.
Due Diligence Page 4
