When a Psychopath Falls in Love

by Herbert Gold

  Of course, if the stinking madre of the perp had died in traffic as an illegal pedestrian, too stupid to find the crosswalk, there would be zilch chance of getting any money for his services beyond the Legal Aid minimum. Señora Gutierrez made her way slowly up the ramp incline required by the Federal Aid to the Obese, Stoned, and Other Differently-Abled Act, but paid for by the taxes of patriotic citizens.

  Another Ferd Conway virtue. Sometimes picked up small checks, like a true professional in the legal field. Kasdan was still counting and listing virtues, Ferd warily watching his lips.

  Ferd deserved to see his time on earth ended. True, this was a negative conclusion, but it was Dan Kasdan’s strong opinion.

  In all fairness, list-making should not stop yet. Kasdan needed to balance matters with an account of his own flaws.

  Tended to be critical. Persistently judging Ferd Conway. Neglected Ferd’s sunniness, his default-setting glee, which came onto the screen especially when big-hootered Lady Justice tipped the legal scales in his favor. Rivals from the DA’s office gloomily snapped their laptops shut when one of Ferd’s malefactors got off because a witness failed to show up, due to Ferd’s careful ministering through intermediaries and from an untraceable ethical distance…

  Well, no point in Dan’s berating himself. It was stipulated: Ferd treated life as a zero-sum game which didn’t preclude his winning. Dan was now working the corners himself, in his own way, ready to take on his responsibilities as a father, a grandfather, and a person capable of vengeance… By God, Ferd had it coming to him.

  Demonstrating his good-guyness, despite what some might claim, Ferd moved slowly, aiming not to startle, and reached for what he called a “muchas gracias” letter on the coffee table from a client who wasn’t even Hispanic or Chicano “or whatever the chulos call them­selves these days.” Here, read it. I’ll wait.” This non-Hispanic chulo wrote:

  You tha man, bro. Lookin 4 kool-ass lawyerin,

  Tha 1 with tha attitude, fortitude, innertube.

  Respeck you all-ways!

  “Got to say Yo to that, am I correct, Dan? Sincere question; over to you.”

  Kasdan held it between two fingers of his left, his other hand. “I think you wrote it yourself.” He put it back exactly where it had been, leaning against a Ronson table lighter, an icon of generations-ago weddings, near an ashtray containing a juicy medicinal marijuana butt, the roach awaiting a call for further treatment. “Like you made your deal with Petal.”

  Ferd’s hand waved away the thought. He could spray the air with denial – Petal Who? – but a rational man had other options. He emerged from wordlessness with words. “Now you’re gonna say I made a deal with Amanda, too? Things happen, dude. You’re gonna say I’m a bad person, like you made a big discovery, Cowboy?”

  Kasdan wouldn’t think of it.

  Ferd shook his head. Gloom, pesky gloom. There was a switch­blade sprung and no trust around here. But he let it pass, Dan didn’t even credit his expert forgery of a sincere thank you letter. He sent a glance, needing solace, toward the ashtray.

  In Ferd’s cozy apartment, his way-of-life condo, with all the furnish­ings needed for comfort (Eames chair from Busvan, ice machine, big-screen color teevee with VCR and DVD attachments, subscription to Cable, permission to smoke a joint when the occasion called for it), Dan Kasdan failed to appreciate how thoroughly Ferd had organized himself for an agreeable future. It should have been an example for losers like present company. There was a faint astrin­gency in the air, sweat, hair product, cannabis. Today, tonight, how­ever long it took, would be the last time Dan could enjoy Ferd’s ac­coutrements. He stabbed, he pulled the blade up and it made a whis­pering sound as it separated fat and gristle.

  That was how Kasdan might plan and imagine it. Sometimes things don’t work out according to plan.

  – 1 –

  Fortunately for Ferd Conway, sin had been abolished in San Francisco, along with ethnic prejudice and old age. (Earthquakes were still under study.) When an alleged sinner was about to be hung by vigilantes a hundred and some years ago – a doctor whose crime and medical specialty have not come down in history – he was asked, “Any last words before you go?” He answered: “Not at this time.”

  Like the defunct doctor, who remained optimistic until the noose dropped, Ferd felt marked out to be happy and successful, and gen­erous enough to enlist Dan Kasdan in his career plans. The matter wasn’t too complicated for a man who spoke Spanish almost as well as he spoke depressed American. Carry a briefcase with hidden funds, talk to a lawyer on an easy-going Caribbean island, open the briefcase to buy a nice beachfront property, register the papers with a sleepy clerk in the easy-going nation’s records-keeping office… “I speak Spanish, not French or Creole,” Kasdan said. “That’s a mere detail,” Conway assured him.

  A few other details to watch out for: long lunchtime siesta closures; carjackings and street murders, but only at night or during the day; lots of unspoiled seaside frontage in this fucked-up tropical paradise… “I count on you to pay attention, Cowboy. Why else would I share?”

  “Got it. Registry closed between noon and four.”

  Ferd beamed. His killer smile expressed confidence, an aspect of his total faith in Dan. “One thing I like about you, always did, always will, is you don’t look like a felon or any other perp.” When there was no thank-you for the compliment, Ferd added, “Actually, that’s only one thing. I like and respect, always did, always will, many things… just can’t think of them offhand.” Lips twitching a haha; urging of answering haha from Kasdan. Still no response. Ferd unswitched the killer smile, kilowatts wasted. “Hello? Hello? You there, Cowboy?”

  “Listening.”

  “You should be a more easy-going male unit, like me.”

  Kasdan was distracted by the quartet of Hall of Justice lawyers at the next table, emitting their brags with raised voices, each demand­ing his turn for attention from colleagues and competitors, trading the effluvia of sweaty nights and uneasy dreams, their mingling morning breath now being mutated by coffee, later to be sweetened by breath strips if they happened upon someone cute. In San Fran­cisco, an alert attorney can get lucky at the oddest moments, some­times with the wife of a client who shouldn’t mind because, depend­ing on musculature and degree of concentrated attention, her hus­band also is likely to get lucky in prison.

  Since Ferd Conway had the idea of bringing his favorite court translator, Dan Kasdan, into a junior partnership deal for a nice off­shore payday – Ferd, of course, receiving his entrepreneurial portion – he needed to practice the arts of camaraderie, moving matters along. Mornings at the Caffe Roma across the street from the Hall of Justice, 850 Bryant, San Francisco, USA, were familiar to Dan and Ferd, therefore abetting the smooth moving of matters.

  The little explosions of the Roma’s espresso machine were like a crack of lightning close by, followed by spurts of steam. For Kasdan, cafe latte was a treat after merely boiling water for Nestle’s Instant on the stove in his dusty flat on Ellis, although frequently, truth be told, he found the morning San Francisco Chronicle more fun than cama­raderie at the Roma. It was Kasdan’s habit to prefer the festival of local and world disasters to early morning chat. But since he fre­quently needed to work with Ferd, translating for Pasqual or Jesus or Mateo, he often joined him in the morning. This time it was more serious.

  Harvey Johnson, checking out the sports section across the crowded room, made a face of big-lipped pout, deep-furrowed disap­proval. The black homicide detective was Dan’s closest friend, former­ly a frequent easy laughter, still a deep-voiced laughter, but often sinking into gloom as he tried not to let on. His son had been shot in the neck in a drive-by in Newark, lingered in a coma until Harvey signed to take him off life support. He didn’t need to let on to Dan. Later Kasdan planned to tell him that he had joined Ferd by prearrangement; he wasn’t ducking the friend with a years-old grief he chose not to advertise. Under pressure, Kasdan planned to clear
himself with Harvey as soon as he figured out how to do it right.

  In a troubled world, given to unremitting felonies, Ferd’s fellow advocates for the defense held up standards, with careful forensic haberdashery, shirt, tie and cufflink areas gleaming. Pinkie rings encircled middle-aged pinkies; undershirts or souvenir tee shirts hid chains from judicial review. According to California code, competi­tion about dress was to be understated. San Francisco Casual had long supplanted the traditional dark suit except in major civil litiga­tion. At the Roma, a few former radicals dressed like defendants, expressing solidarity with the afflicted. “All prisoners are political prisoners,” E. Joe Langford liked to remind them over his morning half-caf, half-decaf soy cappuccino, careful not to get soy foam on his goatee. He wore a clip-on ponytail, but even E. Joe removed it for court appearances. Apart from a few traditional Bay Area ideologues, the Roma crowd was mostly into gain. No fedoras, no antique gold pince-nez reading glasses hanging from chains. On the other hand, several pairs of designer sunglasses pushed up into hair; the glasses would need wiping, due to scented hair gels.

  Kasdan was still picking up the conversation at the next table. . . “Nice tan. Bottle or salon?”

  “Maui.”

  “Better watch out for that global warming these days, what with the melanoma out there. Personally, I avoid ultraviolet like the plague.”

  His adversary glanced at the radical lawyer’s beltline. “Obesity is out there, too, E. Joe. So tennis keeps my weight down.”

  “You get a deal for Maui, like all the other used-up places?”

  “The Kapalua Bay Hotel, my man, where you gotta wear all-white on the courts.”

  Across the room, Harvey Johnson sulked, sending spite signals to his pal from a corner table too small for his bulk. The homicide dick never joined the lawyers; after a study of the Sports section, he tended to his notebook and laptop. He didn’t see why the court translator failed to plop down with him, alone with nothing but an espresso and a note on his screen to remind him that the accused was carrying a Sig Sauer, not a Glock.

  A scream like a car alarm stopped everything for a few seconds. Coffee cups and chewing were briefly suspended, but it was only a scream of laughter, only a defendant coked up for his imminent guilty verdict. All returned to what they were doing (espresso, bagels, muffins) or saying (words). The screamer pulled his fingers through long greasy hair, happy to have gained a moment of attention from really important assholes, something to savor in his pod in the county jail, eating mush ladled out by cooks lacking basic cuisine finesse.

  Every table was taken; breakfasters were pushing away depleted cups and plates to make room for their own; a few good citizens cleared their tables. Having his own guests, a gentleman of the older school, Myron Ventorsky, put the previous guests’ dishes on a chair. If they fell off and broke, well, they fell off and broke. Breakfast amid this din needed to be redeemed by a firm hand because work was work, fun was fun, and in the old days breakfast involved standards of service.

  Ventorsky embraced the obvious, his late middle-aged skin and wispy baldness, reminiscing for his guests: “I started to prep this law student in my office, summer job – paid, not an intern – files and get me the coffee and I thought I should be nice. Blue eyes, an angel –looked like one – so I said, Hey, Heather, her name, great lunch on her” – outlined the air to make sure his point was taken – “treated her with kid gloves as the evening wore on, the dinner, no drinks first but then a nice wine, it was Saturday night, the drinks came later, and then this Heather looked at her watch, she yawned in my face, she said: Just fuck me, okay? Just fuck me and get it over with. I got an early date with my mom for church.”

  “No class these days,” Gary Farr, a solo practitioner, observed. “Where’s the romance?”

  “Condoms in her purse!” Myron sighed. “I’ll tell you, I miss the days when they put on the diaphragm ahead of time, the pill.

  Gary shook his head. “Man, you forget, they didn’t wear the pill…”

  “… or,” – Myron nostalgic, witty – “they just said no, but you can go to church with my mom and me. I can always use a little worship.”

  “… and then she’d sit on your face.”

  Everyone cackled. No one remembered the old days as quite that good.

  Kasdan felt a longing to be elsewhere, even outside on Bryant, where in the forever-springtime of San Francisco, the miracle of green pushed its way through cracks in the sidewalk, shoots sprout­ing from windblown seeds or ready to start their new life after being airlifted in pigeon droppings.

  It was time for Ferd Conway to further his business with Kasdan, but they were not alone. Kevin Nappy stood at their table, seeking mentorship from Ferd. “Apropos,” he was saying, a fresh-faced Uni­versity of San Francisco Law graduate who passed the Bar on only his second try, now just beginning his career as a gay activist. He was building a practice in the arcane specialty of defending purse snatch­ers who specialized in mom and grandmom figures; he hoped to work his way up to political blood splatterers and formerly Catholic disrupters of religious services.

  “Apropos, my client said he bumped this biddy down because he needs a hall area rug. It wasn’t personal about the lady even if she happened to be a pink-plastic shopping bag Chinese. His domestic partner said…”

  “Apropos?” Ferd demanded.

  “…they had the nice flat, the cozy vestibule, but all they had was this tatty old hunk of carpet in the hall. A new Laura Ashley hall area rug, providing she makes one, would complete their living situation. This granny’s credit card…”

  “Apropos? A hall area rug is a defense of need?”

  Kevin strained to ignore the sarcastic critique from his pro tem of counsel. Putdowns were part of the breakfast networking experience at the Roma; a new lawyer could bond with a veteran while the veteran was offered space to speak his or her mind. “Ferd, all I’m saying is not necessarily only straight people are subject to spouse-equivalent nagging.”

  “I got no fabulous fuckin hall area rug, Kevin. All I got is a polished hardwood floor hall area and I’m satisfied with that. Am I wrong?”

  Teasing worked off the excess roasted sugar and caffeine fumes. Here everyone was equal except for those who were not. Fun simmered, cell phones summoned, fellowship reached a boil. Only Harvey Johnson across the room disagreed in general with the pro­ceedings. Although Kasdan sat silent, his chair tilted slightly away from the table, he was part of Ferd Conway’s group. Kasdan would settle with Harvey later, or maybe not. A friend should find it in his heart to forgive a friend who was formerly without extensive plans but now was developing some and needed to act in accordance.

  At ten o’clock, the Roma would turn quiet, but it was not yet the hour and the shout-outs were still accelerating. At another table, a happy-faced lawyer in a yellow tee shirt with the copyrighted smiley face stenciled on it – this lawyer not in court today, just hanging out with the gang – was delivering a current case summary to a less happy-faced audience. A senior practitioner, not Myron Ventorsky, listened gravely. (He was carrying a death penalty draft appeal in his briefcase.) Happy Face, given name unknown to Kasdan, was outlin­ing his defense of a 49-year-old preschool teacher charged with sexual molestation of a child. “He says the kid, age four but looks older, came on to him, so who’s the real victim? My client was just innocently inspecting him for pubic lice.”

  The guys were chuckling.

  Happy Face shook his happy head. “Barely out of training pants and a hardened molester already.”

  The guys were interrupting with questions. If the kid grows up to play for the NBA, he doesn’t want to have a record... Ferd leaned toward their table; maybe this was the group for him, more fun than somber Dan Kasdan.

  “My client intends to sue the kid. We’re going to go after mom and dad for harboring the little pervert.”

  “Take it on contingency,” Ferd said. “Is the kid being scouted already? The Raiders need a center.�
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  Happy Face, giddy with all the attention, yelled: “You’re my boy, Ferd!”

  Fun, sociability, and networking was a competitive sport as the morning got going. Harvey, big-eared, registered the noise and pleas­ure from his corner table, disapproving more of his friend Dan than of the breakfast assholes at the Caffe Roma across Bryant from the Hall of Revenge with its Elevators of Sighs and Holding Pens of Multi-Ethnic Correction. The counter women, sisters or look-alike cousins, plucked up bagels and muffins with tongs dripping crumbs and answered requests for “the usual” with rapid nods or witticisms (“Extra mayo on that poppy seed bagel?”), almost always correctly sliding “the usual” forward. Upholding a Roman tradition, living to the fullest the American dream in the golden west, the sisters or cousins hustled at top speed through the morning rush.

  Myron Ventorsky, the senior counsel with recent hair plugs marching across the desert between his old hairline and his forehead, expressed hilarity by nodding sagely. Despite his rashness with the cute church-going intern, he was a man of methodical habits and hair plugs to match; they were planted in parallel rows, like saplings in a formal garden of hair wisps. Perhaps, without the new plugs, he would have laughed, but they itched this morning. He raked his finger­nails over the doomed plants. “Funny,” he muttered. Implants were not guaranteed; they looked pubic, parched; but interns, if carefully chosen, were supposed to require only a generous bar tab or perhaps a few lines of coke on Saturday night.

  The distinguished horny advocate for the downtrodden wore a pink button-down shirt with a giant raised collar, wings engulfing his wattles, too tight for him now – what used to be called the Tony Curtis collar – giving Myron less a look of Tony Curtis, age thirty, than of choked sanctity. Not what he was aiming for, unless he was just trying to use up his veteran shirt products before his imminent unfortunate demise. The tight collar, the flush of his cheeks, the bulging lashless hyperthyroid eyes hinted that soon the Caffe Roma breakfast crew would be mourning a gracious and beloved colleague, a devoted Giants and Raiders fan, a man with a wide circle of admir­ers scrambling viciously to pick up his cases.