by Parnell Hall
As I lay there cradling Alice in my arms, the happy thought crossed my mind, on top of everything else, when I got to court tomorrow morning, my buddy wouldn’t be there. Just before I dropped off to sleep, I felt a warm glow, and I had to admit things could be worse.
I gotta stop thinking that.
15.
THURSDAY STARTED OFF GREAT. Sherry Fontaine was on time. In fact, she was early. I had a piece-of-cake signup in Harlem—the kid had fallen on a school playground, Location of Accident pictures to be taken at a later time—whizzed downtown, pulled up in front of Sherry Fontaine’s building at five after nine, and she was already standing there. She gave me a big smile and a wave and hopped in.
Once again, her hair was wet, and once again she was wearing a cotton something or other without a bra. But today her nipples didn’t bother me. Yesterday they had been blatant, suggestive, intrusive, obnoxious, late nipples, and they pissed me off. Today they were casual, friendly, comfortable, on-time nipples, and I didn’t mind them at all. In fact, they were actually rather pleasant.
Sherry was in a good mood, too. More than a good mood. She was higher than a kite. Apparently rehearsal had gone very well. She was all keyed up talking about it. The director was starting to listen to reason (i.e., her), and coming up with some good ideas (i.e., hers), and was beginning to get a handle on the more important aspects of the play (i.e., her part). The baseball player was pretty much of a stiff, but he was at least good-looking, and was showing signs of having potential if someone (i.e., her) could get it out of him. The author of the play was a numbnuts who didn’t like her improvisation (from which I gathered she was rewriting all her lines), but she was sure the director was coming around to her point of view, and probably would have said so more explicitly had he not been inhibited by the presence of the playwright.
It was a totally egotistical and self-serving monologue, and had Sherry Fontaine been late, I’m sure I would have found it annoying. But since she was early, I found it only amusing, and her high spirits didn’t bother me at all.
She was also excited because there was no rehearsal Saturday night, and the director had invited the cast to a party, and it was rumored that Al Pacino was going to be there. She went on about the party so much I was beginning to think she was leading up to inviting me. Not to fear. Sherry was off in her own world, and I might not have even been there at all.
We hit the parking lot at twenty to ten. Once again, Sherry got out and went in ahead of me, but I found a parking spot right away, and had plenty of time to search out someone to take care of putting quarters in the meter. Again I was in luck. The guy from yesterday was in the Juror Assembly Room. He seemed disappointed Sherry wasn’t with me, but he accepted the quarters without hesitation. He also confirmed the fact that yesterday afternoon my buddy had, indeed, been dismissed. They kept him there all day until four-thirty before doing it, but they had finally let him go, and he’d gone stomping up the aisle, clutching his jury service certificate in his hand as if it were a sword, and muttering under his breath. That was a tremendous relief. I’d had the paranoid fantasy that yesterday afternoon they’d finally called him and put him on a jury, and he’d be there to haunt me forever. But no, just like that, he was gone. Things were really working out.
I got upstairs in plenty of time for Ralph. In fact, when I got there, OTB Man wasn’t there yet, and I had a momentary flash of panic that maybe he wasn’t coming, and then I’d be on this damn jury, instead of just the alternate. But he arrived minutes later, grumbling about a subway delay, and everything was fine. So, considering I was a reluctant juror who shouldn’t have been there to begin with, on the worst case in history, it was the best of all possible worlds.
The rest of the day went smoothly too. In the morning we met the owner of Dumar Electronics, a middle-aged man named Dumar, which shouldn’t have surprised me, but did. (I mean, like, What a coincidence, they got Gary Shandling to host the “Gary Shandling Show.”) At any rate, Dumar was plump, bald and aggrieved. He told a tale of coming to work that morning and finding a scene of devastation. According to him, the fire had been catastrophic in proportions and had all but wiped him out. He described TVs, amplifiers and answering machines as if they were his children.
Peter, Paul and Mary all had a whack at him, which was probably as fruitless as it was boring. They had copies of two previous depositions he’d made in this case, and they went over them painstakingly, looking for contradictions between what he’d said in them and what he’d said today, harping on things like, “In 1984 you testified that when you entered the office, Hernan Medina and your employee Frank Small were with you, but today you only mentioned Hernan Medina, now which is correct?”
None of the answers to any of these questions was particularly enlightening, but many of them led to objections followed by long, tedious arguments. The Silver Fox seemed slightly off his game today. Not that he was losing many points—he was still sharp as ever, it was just that every now and then he’d let his usual genial facade slip and let his irritation show. It was as if eight years of this bullshit was finally wearing him down. But considering that, he was doing fine.
In the afternoon we were treated to the appearance of the adjuster called in by Dumar Electronics to assess the damage. He was a flashy-looking dresser with dark hair, a dark moustache and a confident manner. He identified a document the Silver Fox produced which turned out to be the assessment he had made back in ‘82. He itemized the damaged equipment, and estimated the total value at two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.
I found the guy pretty impressive until Peter, Paul and Mary got a whack at him. The first thing they brought out was how he got paid, and when I heard it, it floored me.
He got a percentage. Ten percent of the recovery. Good lord. This was an impartial estimate? I could envision the guy standing there thinking, “Okay, here’s a two-thousand-dollar stereo. If I say it’s worthless, I get two hundred dollars. All right, it’s worthless.”
But that didn’t seem to bother the judge or the Silver Fox or the adjuster any. The man stated that taking a percentage was a standard practice, and I guess it was. Once again, the thought crossed my mind, boy am I in the wrong line of work.
And that was the day. Dumar and the adjuster were it. It occurred to me at this rate I would indeed fulfill my prophecy of being on this jury forever, but aside from that the day was very smooth. I had no problem getting quarters put in my meter, my buddy wasn’t around to bug me, the office gave me two more signups for tomorrow, and before I knew it the day was over and I was driving Sherry Fontaine back uptown to drop her off on my way to Harlem.
The ride uptown was perfectly pleasant too. Sherry Fontaine seemed to have given up trying to get me to do anything illegal. Either that, or she was now so into her play she didn’t care. At any rate, she was just bubbling over with good will, and the ride uptown was fine.
I pulled up in front of her building at five-thirty. Actually, I pulled up in front of the building across the street, since I was heading uptown and her building was on the other side of West End. She hopped out of the car at the corner and crossed the street.
I sat in the car and watched her go.
Now, I want you to understand. I wasn’t watching to see she got safely in. After all, five-thirty in the afternoon in the summer in New York City is broad daylight. And West End Avenue is a perfectly respectable street, and a thirty-year-old woman can cross it and go into her apartment building with no trouble. So I was not watching her for that reason. It was just that my car was at the corner, and the light happened to be red. And while I was waiting for it to change, I watched Sherry Fontaine cross the street and enter her building.
Only she didn’t. There was a man leaning against the building next to the front door. When he saw Sherry, he straightened up to meet her. He was a youngish man, maybe Sherry’s age, with long brown hair dangling down the side of his face, and blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt with a hood hanging down th
e back. He wasn’t tall, but he was kind of thin and gangly, and that coupled with the sweatshirt made him look sort of like a hippie basketball player.
At any rate, Sherry walked up to him and the two started talking. I was across the street with the windows up and the air conditioning on, so naturally I couldn’t hear a thing. But from the tilt of their heads and the way their lips were moving, I could tell the conversation wasn’t particularly amicable.
The car behind me honked, and I realized the light had changed. I didn’t drive off, though. Instead I pulled on the emergency brake and hit my flashers. The car behind me gave one more impatient honk, then pulled out and went around me. I paid no attention. I kept watching the scene across the street.
I know, it was none of my business. Sherry Fontaine had never mentioned a boyfriend, but she probably had one, and this was probably him. And they’d probably had a fight, and probably the reason she’d seemed in such good spirits all day was she was upset and overcompensating.
All of that flashed on me, and I knew I should drive off.
But I stayed.
And there was something in the guy’s manner that told me I should stay. That this was not just a domestic spat. At least, I’d like to think I thought that, and I do think I thought that, but maybe that’s only because of what happened next.
He reached out and grabbed her arm. He grabbed her by the wrist and held her firm. And when she reached for his hand he grabbed her other wrist.
I felt sick.
You have to understand. I’m not a physical person by nature. I’m athletic, but I’m not particularly strong. And I’ve never been in a fight in my life. I avoid fights like the plague. Fights, hell, I avoid confrontations. I don’t even like to argue. That’s one of the reasons I feel so silly telling people I’m a private detective. It’s as if, how can they consider me a private detective if I’ve never even punched anyone?
I know, I’m rambling. But that’s why I felt sick. All that emotional baggage was flashing on me when the guy grabbed Sherry’s arms. Because I knew I had to do something, something I didn’t think I had it in me to do. But I had to, so I did.
I jerked the door open, got out of the car. I caught a break in traffic, and went striding across West End Avenue like the cavalry to the rescue. I hit the sidewalk not ten feet from where they were standing, stopped, stuck out my finger straight at him and said, “All right, buddy, hold it right there!”
They both turned and saw me and my heart sank. At least that got it out of my mouth. But still.
The guy was younger than I thought, say twenty-five. He was also more muscular. Thin, yeah, but wiry. Strong. And slightly taller than he’d looked from across the street.
But all that’s subjective and incidental. The bottom line was, I suddenly realized this guy could rip me apart.
He didn’t.
He ran.
He took one look at me and he let go of her hands and he turned and ran. He darted across the street, dodging traffic, flashed around the corner, and just like that he was gone.
I watched him go. As he did, all I could think of was, what a fucking relief.
I turned to find Sherry Fontaine looking after him.
Son of a bitch. I’d done it. I was like some crazy movie hero, I’d actually saved her. Actually rescued a damsel in distress.
She turned to me, that damsel in distress. She turned to me, and just like in the movies, her eyes were red with tears.
She didn’t fall into my arms sobbing, though. Instead, she clenched her fists, stamped her foot, said, “God damn it! Why the fuck did you have to do that?” and stalked into her building, slamming the door behind her.
16.
ALICE WAS NOT PLEASED.
“You fought for this woman?” she demanded.
“I didn’t fight for her.”
“You were going to.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You got out your car. You crossed the street.”
“I had to do something.”
“Oh yeah? What were you going to do?”
“Stop him.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you weren’t going to fight with him?”
“No.”
“What were you going to do, tell him he was a bad boy?”
“I don’t know what I was going to do.”
“But you weren’t going to fight him?”
“If I had, he’d have killed me.”
“You took a risk like that for this woman?”
“Person.”
“What?”
“This person. She’s just a person. If you’d stop thinking of her as ‘this woman,’ you’d understand. I’d have done the same thing for any of the jurors.”
“But it wasn’t any of the jurors. It was her.”
“It happened to be her.”
“Yes, it did. Of all the jurors, she’s the one you happened to drive home. And then she yelled at you.”
“She was upset.”
“I’m sure she was. So she told you to mind your own business?”
“Not in those words.”
“Well, what words did she say?”
“She said, ‘God damn it, why the fuck did you have to do that.’”
“Nice talk.”
“She was upset.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Well, she was.”
“Sure. Fine.” Alice took a breath. “Well, I guess you’re not driving her anymore.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Well, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“I said I would.”
“That was before she yelled at you. You don’t have to drive someone who’s gonna yell at you.”
“She’s expecting me to pick her up in the morning.”
“So call her and tell her you’re not going to.”
“I don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t. It would be stupid. I’d feel like a little kid. ‘You yelled at me, so I’m not gonna drive you anymore.’ “
Alice held up her hand. “Wait a minute. That’s not the point here.”
“What’s the point?”
“Do you want to drive her?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh, yes it is. The point is, are you doing what you want to do?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh really? Do you want to drive her?”
I took a breath. “Well, no.”
“So call her and tell her you’re not going to drive her.”
“I don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?”
I took another breath. “I don’t want to have to call her and tell her my wife won’t let me drive her anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes it is. If you weren’t telling me not to drive her, there’d be no issue.”
“Aren’t you angry at her for yelling at you? I mean, doesn’t that make you mad?”
“Yes, but—”
The phone rang. Alice scooped it up. “Hello?”
One look at Alice’s face told me who was on the phone.
Alice covered the mouthpiece and said simply, “It’s for you.”
Those words spoke volumes.
I picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”
“Stanley, hi. I just called to say I’m really sorry.”
With Alice standing there looking at me, the best I could manage was an, “Uh huh.”
“I know, I know, it’s not enough. Look, I’m at rehearsal now, I can’t really talk. I just called to say it was a horrible misunderstanding, and I shouldn’t have yelled at you, and I’m really sorry, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning nine-fifteen. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks. You’re an angel. Sorry again.”
And she hung up.
I hung up to find Alice looking at me.
> “I take it that was her?” Alice said dryly.
“Yes.”
“Hmm,” Alice said. “Nice voice.”
In my humble estimation, Alice did not sound entirely sincere.
17.
SHERRY WAS LATE. Wouldn’t you know it. Nine-fifteen I was waiting outside her building, and she wasn’t there. And after yesterday, I just wasn’t in the mood to cope with her being late.
I was sorely tempted just to drive off and leave her. But I’m just not that kind of guy. I’m not that hostile on the one hand, or that gutsy on the other. What I mean is, if I drove off and left her, I wouldn’t want to deal with the ugly scene when she finally did arrive for jury duty, late and pissed off at being left. Being finally free of my buddy’s hostile presence, I didn’t need someone else sitting there hating me day after day.
So I didn’t want to leave her, but I didn’t want to wait, and there I was, sitting in my car, impotent, frustrated and mad as hell.
I put the flashers on, went into the foyer and rang her bell. No answer. I rang again, longer this time. Nothing. I leaned on the damn bell. Still nothing.
I knew why. She was in the shower. What with her coming down with her hair wet every morning, it didn’t take a detective to figure that out. She was in the shower, so she couldn’t hear the bell.
But if she was in the shower and not even dressed yet, we were gonna be late. Or rather, I was gonna be late. She’d sail in at one minute to ten, while I was still circling in the parking lot or handing out quarters for the meter. She’d be on time and I’d be late, transported back to high school again, sent to detention study hall by Ralph, made to stand in the corner like a bad boy, or kept after court and made to clean the blackboards.
It was the last straw. I was through having fights with my wife over this woman who was pissing me off. You make me late today, Sherry, so help me, this is your last ride.
I rang the bell again. Still nothing.
The foyer door had been propped open, understandable in the heat, but still a serious breach of security. If I’d lived in the building, I wouldn’t have allowed it. Or at least, Alice wouldn’t have. Not without a super in the lobby.
