When a Psychopath Falls in Love

by Herbert Gold

  “Who?”

  “Who what?”

  “Who said that?”

  Ferd sighed. This was a day of many sighs. Expressing inner feeling is tiring. “I did, I confess, I just did say that, your buddy who takes care of things and now he’s giving you a chance, not that it doesn’t take care of me, too. Think of it this way: You’re a lucky Cowboy.” Ferd now went out on a limb. Slyly averting his eyes, he brought up a touchy subject. “Sometimes your people chooses the easy way in, doesn’t it? Isn’t that one way they survive through all the holocausts and then they eat that matzah ball soup? To celebrate?”

  Why, Kasdan wondered, did Ferd’s eyelids sometimes seem to have a silky fringe when they fluttered, and then sometimes, as now, they were bald, red, and shiny? A trick of light, surely; a trick of perception; the universe, like San Francisco, was full of tricks.

  “You know who some a my clients are?”

  “Si. They’re my clients, too.”

  Ferd ignored the interruption. “Not those.” Ferd hadn’t ignored the sarcasm. “Normal American, boys who stray, but you don’t get them. More like straight hair. Your perps work in body shops when they get out of jail, or they’re roofers. Think God lives in an electric guitar. Roofers trying to be hoods or rock stars. Tattoo their name above their cunts’ nipples, give them the hepatitis.”

  “Right, the Hispanics need me.”

  “So when he goes back to jail and she finds herself a new boy­friend, what can a chica do, chica all by herself? Does she make room above her nipple for another name? End up with a big above-the-nipple roster? Like a rap sheet? Check that out sometime. Punks. Punks.” Ferd shook off the thought. Musing was a distraction from his main business. “I have to go through the motions for them, Cowboy, till I arrange things otherwise, as you’re gonna help me do. It’s time.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Help you break free of the punks, the Pasquals and Ho-zays and all those shitty green cards. You want to, you really do. I know it and so do you.” Ferd lifted his arm as an invitation to high-five across the Panchita’s picnic table, stretching, but Kasdan kept his hands dead at his side. It was ungainly. “Okay, but your secret is safe with me,” Ferd continued, riding over his annoyance. After all, he wanted something from Dan, that was the central point here. He wasn’t the receiver of supplication, as a criminal defense lawyer usually is. High-fiving is nice, but wasn’t critical. Ferd reached for control with one of his strong suits: “And you got that birth-damaged grandkid to consider. Or was it genetic, the mix, Semitic – you prefer Mosaic? – and Margaret Torres? Sad anyway. I feel for you, Dan. Now you got to think of others. Try doing that, okay?”

  Stubborn was Dan Kasdan’s version of steadfast. His silence could drive a communicative guy off his rocker. But what blocked Ferd’s path and drove him off his rocker only increased his desire to get right back on the rocker. Swaying with impatience, Ferd said urgently: “Take your time.”

  Kasdan didn’t even admit he would. He just did.

  Ferd helped the process along by fond reminiscence of some of their mutual clients. “That pickpocket, remember? He wasn’t a Colombian, wasn’t even a gypsy – oh yeah, not your client, just mine, but I knew you needed work, so I threw it your way – he was a loyal white-ass Americano, so he didn’t need to keep the trade secrets, like those Colombian gangs. Offered to teach me, like a true patriot. He could empty a pocket without putting his hand in. Just two fingers, making accordion pleats so it, like, shortened the pocket…” Ferd extended two fingers, thumb and index, plucking with them at the air. Kasdan moved away. Ferd grinned. “These accordion pleats, one two three, the pocket shrinks, your wallet jumps out. Danny, you don’t even have to reach in! Your wallet jumps into my hand!”

  “Dexterous,” said Kasdan.

  “Dex-terious, Danny. A flying fuckin wallet, then you fade into the crowd. But as an attorney, what do I need it for?”

  “As a fallback position?”

  Ferd gave him a reproachful grin. “Not even,” he said. “Sometimes I think you forget what I tell you.

  “What was that?”

  “So then I have to tell you again.”

  “What?”

  “See what I mean? I don’t forget you prefer not to be called Cow­boy, but if I know what I’m doing – alpha male unit, Cowboy – then I know what I’m doing. See, I said that twice, too.”

  “You did,” Kasdan said as sullenly as he knew how.

  “So does your breath still smell like curry? You tell me. It’s just an opinion, but you do save your pennies at that el-cheapo Indian all-ya-can with the shrieking on the tape? I tell my Pakistani boys at the Xerox joint, go use the atom bomb already. Somebody’s got to stop that Indian pop music.”

  “Last night.” The Krishna Buffet was nearby; Kasdan liked Mr. Patel. “After I dropped off some shopping at Amanda’s…”

  “Why don’t you just telephone out for shopping, massage, what­ever – a guy your age? Take it a little easier.”

  Kasdan had no answer. He still felt capable of shopping and occasional courtship.

  “When I make love... fuck,” Ferd explained, “I like a woman who... I move gentle, gently, just so.” He was having trouble being perfectly clear about a matter that required exactness, tenderness, the whole spectrum of cementing a sense of partnership. “I like it gentle, gently, but then I like her to thrash a little, jump around, till I say ‘Slow down, cunt,’ only I usually say it nicer, ‘Wait for me, baby, don’t get ahead of things.’”

  He sighed.

  Kasdan said nothing.

  “Or if I’m tired after a long day dealing with the miscreants, a blow job’ll do fine.”

  Kasdan said nothing.

  “People don’t listen, that’s the problem with people. Especially dumb cunts.”

  Elbow pressed to his waist, he gave Kasdan a high school girl’s cute wave and trilled the word “Hi-i!” It was a wakeup call in a lagging dialogue. It also served as apology for what some folks might call crudeness. Ferd was an expert at his line of work, probably the greatest expert; the work of being Ferd Conway.

  “Let’s get serious,” he suggested. “We only live once, and then we die.”

  “Well, okay.”

  Ferd wagged his index finger roguishly. “Got you on cross that time, Philosopher. It’s a fact. We only live once, but when we got a daughter we never raised to live after us, a grandkid wouldn’t come into being without you, too bad about his handicap, handicaps, but what can you do – that gives you several lives to be responsible for.”

  Kasdan felt as if he were poking through a basement with his eyes covered and his arms extended, in danger of cracking his head.

  “Responsibility, Cowboy!” Ferd was ready to rest his case and dismiss the witness. He was fully in charge.

  Kasdan had no answer because there was no question. A silent moment passed.

  Still expressing compassion about Dan’s neediness, guiltiness, his grandson, whatever, Ferd fumbled for a cigarette, didn’t have any, couldn’t smoke here anyway, pretended to light up and crinkled his nose over the nonexistent cigarette, saying, “It’s a terrible situation, Dan, terrible, terrible, but it can’t be helped. So do what you have to do.”

  “What is it? How much can I expect?”

  Ferd was delighted. Now Dan was talking. Ferd adored eventual directness in a colleague. Oh, brother. Everything was going copasetic and great guns. So about the cash-in, available shortly, near-future-wise, Kasdan deserved a complete explanation, along with careful instructions. Ferd conceded these points, although on a need-to-know basis, he didn’t need to know everything. Okay. Okay. Okay.

  This wasn’t some internet scam. It was more in the service sector, more like courier service, but higher up, involving transfers and pur­chase. “Drugs?”

  Kasdan asked.

  “Oh, don’t be like that. Oh, you’re nasty. So Cowboy – pardon, Gaucho – pardon, Dan – these were hard-working youngsters, just
nice deprived kids. Maybe no G.E.D., or they come out of technical training, their life coping skills are nil at maximum. They can cope, but they prefer to cop, haha. They can use a pick-them-up Monday mornings after a hard weekend trying to get it up when they’re twenty-six like they did when they were seventeen. I helped.”

  “Drugs,” Kasdan repeated.

  “I helped. To keep the wheels of industry grinding. Which makes America the great nation we all know and appreciate. I did my part in the pharma-cuticle field.”

  “You don’t anymore?”

  “Withdrew. Silicon Valley kind of retrenched. I started to get that feeling like luck running out, you know the feeling? Except, probablemente, you had it all your life till you got the daughter, the grandkid, plus the good friend – that’s me – to pull it all together for you…”

  “I thought maybe it was massage parlors.”

  “Those Asians that don’t know shit about taking the money out of the paper bags? I keep my hand in, Papa-san. But I was saying, you do me the favor, for your commission of course, your percent to be negotiated between buddies, invest in a property, that sunny real estate sitting on the ground there, offshore on a lovely beachfront, and...” His mouth opened; his mouth shut. Even an enthusiastic soul sometimes needs to take a breath. “I’m a lawyer, but I guess I should try to explain it for you without words of art. Simple language you’ll understand. Mainly, I don’t want the IRS doing any more sniffing and poking than they already started. I dumped my papers on a desk at the Federal Robbery Building and now they claim they want details. I was nice as pie to this equal opportunity hire trying to prove he’s up to normal standards. Supporting documents! Equal opportunity chickenshit artist! I really need you, Dan.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you really need me, Cowboy.”

  That was the point. Other people might howl in the wind through the crackling noise of downtown San Francisco, their intentions not clear. Ferd’s tenor was sharp and high; it penetrated; anxiety guaran­teed reception. Full comprehension could be reserved for due course later because of the aforementioned need-to-know basis. When Ferd lowered his voice to a confiding whisper, a near-whisper, the sincerity in his blue eyes, the touch of his warm hand on Kasdan’s arm, the light emotional huskiness made his devotion to the cause under discussion (albeit under undefinition so far), the most important element in the lives of Ferd Conway, Dan Kasdan, Dan’s family, and in fact, plus, go for it – the entire world! Therefore it was time to elevate the discussion; Ferd had learned about closers from his experience with juries.

  “Being raised in another tradition, not that it’s any less valid than the Christian great leap forward, I don’t suppose you read much scripture growing up, did you?” Kasdan waited without answering. “Okay,” Ferd said, “to each his own, that’s the American way. But…” He raised his finger. “‘The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy, mak­ing wise the simple.’ Sometimes I ask for mercy for the client, Dan, but in this case, I’m only striving to wisen you up.”

  Kasdan knew it would be wrong to take Ferd’s joy from him, so much need for love and to run matters. Ferd didn’t mind if others made up lies about him, even true ones. His own story was incom­plete, but he was in control. How it would work out was just a collection of mere details, like the busy San Francisco days and nights where he went about his business – true of the hookers and trans­vestites in the Tenderloin, true of the purse-grabbers and muggers, the dealers and the massage parlor operators, and true of their advocate, Ferd Conway, loyally sorting out their details. People need people when they get in trouble, don’t they? In the Anglo-American legal defense system, one of the glories of democracy, every stupid fuckup deserves an advocate who can work the system.

  Kasdan didn’t forget his own needs. He intended to provide for the daughter he had neglected and the grandson who needed more than a court translator could offer.

  “To answer your question,” Ferd was saying, “which because I’m attuned to your feelings I notice you’ve iterated several times, your take-home, it’s in the five figures.”

  “Does that answer my question?”

  “Partner, compadre. Far be it from me to put down a totally nor­mal curiosity. I wouldn’t even call it nosiness. After all, it is your life.”

  He nodded with appreciation of his business-like clarification, even though friendship between partners should include trust and faith in each other’s goodwill.

  “So?”

  Ferd’s smile. A tolerant sigh. “With more TK, depending,partner.”

  So all in all, it was a pretty good South of the Border lunch confer­ence, chopped pork, guacamole, sour cream, little traces of pepper, all in a wrap of tortillas home-baked in Oakland by loving Mexican machines. For health reasons, Dan had asked for the spinach tortilla. Just like Ferd, he needed time to move through his routines until his own special intention was ripe.

  – 8 –

  Not being a DA, a judge, or some highly bonused downtown partner out of Yale or Stanford, Ferd Conway wasn’t toasty-tan from skiing Cancun or tennis in Vail; his pride required other nourishment. He uttered words like ‘rectitude’ with a crease of irony at the corners of his mouth, the notch more telling at one corner than at two (some­times less is more). He made do without the tan, the diploma, the snotty vocabulary.

  A graduate of one of the best night law schools in the Bay Area, he had dated the Extension Homecoming Queen. He aimed to make himself as comfortable as one of those Yale phonies, celebrating the festival of life more than they did. Just now, he had a, call it, hetero date. He was adjusting into position his best friend and colleague, easing the way with another of their famous summit lunches. Events were moving well, moving Dan along. He could feel the forward motion in his heart, its thrilling rapid flutter as Kasdan paid attention to Ferd’s step-by-step introduction into a better future. This was a pleasure in itself. One of Ferd’s favorite proverbs was: Strike while the iron is warm.

  But he needed to be absolutely confident about commitment from the exasperatingly dreamy court translator. Serious funds were involved; offshore travel; passing through customs. It required another sharing of a table, a partaking together, a follow-up to their productive session with extra guacamole and tangy suggestions about the better life to come. He needed to outline the path for his junior partner with clear dotted lines. “How about some cuisinely dining?” he asked.

  They strolled, bumping familiarly. Ferd considered Pakistani or Indian, that curry stink, but familiar Mex was still the safe way to go. Between friends, tradition bonds, just as in life in general. Also, en route, near the Hall of Justice at the noontime hour, they would surf the waves of secretaries and young female lawyers who were eligible for admiration; little Korean Miss Lee Assistant DAs trotting along on their teeny-tiny high heels, long-striding Wasp girls out of eastern law schools with their lambskin briefcases and hawing laughter; and not to neglect the flirty chicklets who run the spectrum nowadays from security guard to lower court judge.

  Surely tax-free capital gain should clear up most ambiguities. Friendship and personal improvement aside, he had points to emphasize: help for Amanda and what’s-his-name, the damaged mixbreed; an open path into a better future. Ferd was doing careful preparation for both security and affectional reasons. Further burritos (spinach tortillas for Kasdan) were called for. Eyes narrowed with concern, Ferd asked Kasdan, another subject but part of the whole enchilada, if he made out okay these days.

  “Sometimes. When I was younger.”

  Ferd inclined his head gravely. “I saw that one giving you the eye.”

  Kasdan noticed her, too, a young woman proud of her power and testing, just testing. Across the burrito joint, gesturing in the air with talons glowing, she was giving her all to her girlfriend and also giving her all to the post sell-by-date gentlemen across the room; one of those San Francisco miracles – two alls to give. The gentlemen could hear her tale, part of it, because she had raised her voice in or
der to share with everyone, like someone new to cell phones. She was crossing her eyes and shaking her tresses (crowning glories, blond, with magenta streaks) and working the communication system in California croaks: “I said No Way!” And then, “Totally!” And then fluffing the hair with the talons: “Whatever!”

  Someone had tried to do her wrong. No damage, of course.

  “Love that,” Ferd confided.

  So Ferd and Dan had things in common. Kasdan also appreciated the hoarse California croak, the smells, vibrancy, and optimism of creatures who had conquered anorexia as a stage on their way to conquering the world.

  “Me and you,” Ferd said, “we go way back. Remember when Jefferson Airplane was high on the charts…”

  “The Starship…”

  “… sex was safe and Russians were dangerous? When did it turn around backwards? But even if you get HIV, okay, you’ll probably die of something else first.”

  Prostate, Kasdan was thinking.

  “But that herpes, though, that’d get you itching right off the mark, Herpes Simplex, Duplex, damn, they got the whole condominium out there. But say suddenly you’re well-fixed, don’t count your pennies, you’re an upstanding male unit, no stupid curry breath – you get to pick them from top of the line, Cowboy.”

  For variety today, Kasdan ordered the taco salad and no burrito. He wasn’t a slave to tradition. He was trying to remember that singer with the Airplane, her piercing yelp that sent shivers... Grace Slick, who was probably over sixty by now, ‘Go ask Alice, when you’re ten feet tall’... It was time for everybody to move on. Even Ferd was doing so: “You know I’m trying to be a good – well, make that a true friend – a worthwhile contact who will be remembered for the deeds he did in the hereafter.” His voice trailed off. Deep thoughts saddened him. This went way beyond mere contact; it was old-time emotion.