by Herbert Gold
Ferd was observing him with concern. He wanted to acknowledge, in his own way, the little problem that had recently come up. “Sergei, I was noticing, you think he’ll ever learn to go potty, like on his own? I mean, the changing of his diaper, the older they get, you know, kind of messy... a kid like that, do they learn?”
Kasdan occupied himself with keeping his hands quiet. No Parkinsonism. No pseudo-Parkinsonism caused by desires to do damage. Okay so far.
“Jeez, watching the mom change him, maybe he’s having fun, the nice mommy touching him, you think so? I mean I might have fun too, somebody like that wiping me...”
Not making a fist tight enough to break anything, Kasdan was gone. No twisting of one hand against the other. Good. He was elsewhere. He was absent, but not just from this wire-backed chair opposite Ferd Conway. He had departed from himself. He had fled.
“Hey? Dan? Talking so softly, I can’t even hear you?”
Kasdan noticed that his mouth was open; he shut it. He cleared his throat. He wouldn’t cough with his mouth open, not in public. He said: “I was just seeing that’s Harvey over there. Let’s finish our business, should we?”
Relieved, Ferd grinned. “Getting greedy, right?”
“Something like that.”
As Ferd Conway would surely say, given sufficient energy surges, if he happened to think of it, his dear amigo was in a situation never seen before or since in the history of mankind, unless others had found themselves in a similar situation. And as Dan Kasdan would surely respond, this situation happened to be his own (plus, don’t call me Cowboy, okay?).
Both of them were early for today’s meeting. Promptness suited serious intentions. Kasdan neatly folded into four squares the front section of his Chronicle, a habit he had learned from Harvey Johnson. Normally, he liked the morning prelude – coffee and a muffin alone, Chron alone, the warm Caffe Roma bath of getting ready alone for the oncoming day with the help of caffeine, international disasters, and company he didn’t necessarily have to acknowledge. Today he wasn’t alone. Ferd stared down Harvey Johnson, Kasdan’s old pal, across the room, then asked Dan a general question: “So?” Harvey caught the stare, returned it for a concentrated three seconds, then raised an eyebrow; the stud in his ear caught a stray early morning sunbeam. He shrugged and snapped open his laptop.
Having asked Dan, “So?” Ferd answered his own question. “So,” he stated.
The steam machine was banging and hissing, foaming milk for lattes and cappuccinos. Caffeine gaiety crowded the air. Sometimes the room was stuffy for patrons afflicted with sinus problems or illicit remedies for them. Rushes of optimism about getting money, getting acquitted, getting laid, these things cleared the nose almost as well as cocaine. Generally speaking, the Caffe Roma lifted the morning for everyone except most defendants, their dear ones, and resentful citizen conscripts to the jury pool. The griefs of others deepened the satisfaction of working lawyers, assistant DAs, clerks, bail bondsmen, guards, sheriffs, cops; in rhythms of grief and dealing with grief was how their world turned. Here and there, incipient flirtation made inroads on crossed-arms confrontation postures, narrow-eyed yearning over the rims of thick latte bowls, designed for comfort after last night’s excesses. Crumbs flew from lips, paper napkins sopped up saucers where unsteady hands had puddled coffee, fingers plucked daintily at sticky and chunky food products. Despite some engorged conjunctival disturbances, many eyes were ready to rise and shine in the new day. Before court went into session and the briefcases flowed out, tugging at their bearers, a bloat of last-minute predictions and advice raised the Roma’s temperature.
“Chill, man.” It was not a mere request. A pissed-off advocate was shedding toughness onto a client; showing teeth, moving heavy shoulders in a well tailored but too tight jacket, seething, pretending to be at the limit of controlling his seething. He was demanding the balance due on his retainer before he would act any further on his client’s behalf, not in a mood to employ the musical Latin words of art handed down through a tradition which extends back to the Magna Carta and earlier, back to the origins of faith in the rule of justice compounded of both mercy and revenge, to Roman jurisprudence, to Greek meditations upon humankind’s place under the sun. He had already extended himself, out of sheer good nature. He got to the point: “Where’s the mon, hon? Or find yourself a new shyster, okay, shitface?”
But Ferd and Dan were – that is, Ferd was – making progress. He felt this most sincerely. They were moving past that embarrassing glitch with Amanda. Probably Dan had completely forgotten it, and anyway, as Amanda said, they were just messing around. So he should forget it.
Ferd was overcoming by charm whatever hesitations infected his timid friend. Counting on this, plus money, plus offering his amigo a needed adventure to spice up a life spent mumbling back and forth in English and Spanish – oh, maybe a few hasty sexual encounters along the way, but doesn’t God grant everyone a couple of those? – Ferd was confidently rushing forward into both caution and precision, like the wary attorney he was. He built his case; he nailed it. He marshaled his offer. Personally, besides money and a taste of adventure, Ferd wanted more, and not only for himself. He wanted to share. He wanted to prove his friendship.
He also wanted no fuckups. He would hold Dan by the ear, but carry him to the feast.
Distraction from what mattered, or should matter, had been Kasdan’s traditional procedure for getting through the complications that always came up, no matter how he tried to simplify his life. It was more a sin than a mere habit. Now that Amanda, Sergei and the complications of age had come along, he was regrouping, trying to welcome complication. He thought of Petal drinking coffee from a mug, looking up at him questioningly, undecided about whether he would speak to her or she should just go on drinking coffee, but this moment had not actually taken place. Yes, it happened; no, it didn’t. It was another relapse into distraction. But then he was deciding to help her find the child she had abandoned, a boy – this mother had abandoned a boy as Kasdan had abandoned a daughter…” News to him. Petal and her lost son, which she did not have (did she?), were clearer in his mind than the specter of Ferd Conway, waiting there before him in trim and tan flesh.
Ferd stared. No Kasdan present, just his body. A wakeup call was in order. “Okay, your buddy, the black dick…”
“You can call him Harvey Johnson.”
“Sho nuff, Detective Johnson, the equal opportunity promotion. One of my boys told me he interrogates in his unmarked vee-hicle and bends the suspect, who is just loitering on the corner with no dime bags on him, just hanging out, he bends his fingers back: ‘You have the right to remain silent.’”
“You’re bending my fingers back, Ferd.”
“Haha. Thought I lost you there, so thanks for lightening up with a touch of sarcasm. Now I can proceed…”
“Not yet. First, Harvey’s probably the best cop on the street. Second...”
But he was thinking of Petal again. Her lost son. No second defense of Harvey.
Almost gently, Ferd murmured, “You’re abusing the right to remain silent, partner. I’d prefer if we could have a frank exchange of views, go through our deal together, like leaders of the world.”
“Except you’re still blowing smoke at me.”
Ferd grinned and poked Kasdan’s shoulder with one finger, finding the nerve that hurt. “A frank exchange of smoke, okay?” But in an instant, as changeable as the San Francisco weather, Ferd’s sunny cajoling gave way to a weary sigh, an interlude of pain. He challenged his partner. “Be nice, please. You ain’t giving much to chew on here, Cowboy.”
“For me there’s enough.”
“So why keep it private? Share, like I do. I share, don’t I? Fully?”
Ferd was making an effort, yet Kasdan still seemed distracted, due to his own error. He had barged in on Amanda’s privacy. But what was past was past, in Ferd’s opinion. Events tended to complicate a friendship, okay, so get over it. He took a deep breath, p
ushing the memory into ancient history, like yesterday’s shower. More sighs, and then Ferd decided to avoid useless hyperventilation by continuing their summit conference, just as if Dan were being helpful.
“So as I was extrapolating, I’ll handle the airline tickets.” Soon it would be impossible for Dan not to be helpful in return. “I’ll hit you with some spending money so’s you don’t stress out your Visa, your MasterCard, and including a deck of dollars in an envelope, breast pocket, so you can hand out tips. Do it. You’ll be everybody’s favorite in fine grills, lobbies, the porters, the maids’ll fight for your room and put candy on the graves of their madres in your honor. She sews a button on your shirt? Give her a couple bucks. Wakes you up with a quickie?”
“A couple bucks,” said Kasdan.
“Topple her, bend her over a chair, give her a twenty. You’re God!”
And all Kasdan had to do was carry the larger bills nicely wrapped, contact the notaire in Port-au-Prince, fill out a few papers, and then relax by the pool. (Don’t forget the stamps on the deed, a few other details we’ll go through.) Kasdan would agree, how could he not? The hotel has a pool. Even if he sometimes acted like a zombie, Kasdan was still, on a temporary basis, alive.
As were they both. Kasdan had already come to this conclusion. Amanda instructed him, Sergei proved it to him – he was alive with a plan. Ferd stared into his eyes as Kasdan said nothing, revealed less. Ferd willed their conversation to continue, their understanding to deepen. He fell back on a sure recourse: “She gives you hot tongue, you give her cold shoulder – you won’t have to beg anymore, ever again. Finished with the niggling and begging! I see a future before you, partner.”
Ferd’s breath was camouflaged with Altoids, but his strong feeling came through. “Few days, a touch of red tape, nothing too much, you’ll pick up that pidgin they talk…”
“Creole.”
“… eat some rice and beans, try to avoid the girls with AIDS, and come back nice and tan.”
“Sunscreen.”
“Hear me out, a little tan doesn’t poison you. How many folks you see walking around with skin cancer? The sunscreen companies are in business to sell you a scare story.”
Kasdan fell silent. It was a habit. Ferd fell silent. It was hard dealing around here, but Ferd could overcome Kasdan’s bad personality. “I can’t use electronic transfers, don’t favor them. Traceable. Also don’t like cash rolled up in suppositories for constipation – yucch! I want you to be all comfy with this. But I can tell you, Port-au-Prince International Airport, they don’t give a shit.”
“Suppositories...”
“Naw, Dan, that was just my scare tactics, make you smile. You’re gonna be the Olympic champion for Long-Distance Outdoor Money Plant.”
“Is this the best way for you to launder it?”
“Cash and carry, and an oppo-tunity for you and I to work together like the friends and brothers we are. I’ll model the carry-on for you, a strap, no metal, large bills won’t strain your iliac. Time will pass.”
Time will surprise, Kasdan did not say aloud, and Ferd now watched with amusement his friend’s lips moving. This was power, Kasdan rendered speechless, stunned by the careful detailing of Ferd Conway.
“I’m here, maybe God put me here, to get some pep into your life. Even some good sex for the first time in awhile, due to upward-bound karma, am I right?”
Kasdan wasn’t saying.
“Don’t wanna cop, okay. I’m fine with that.” And just at this moment, over the ruins of a breakfast which emphasized the sugar and caffeine groups, Ferd poked him gently in the belly, not hitting, just stroking a little, and then a tug at the belt, as if testing for pregnancy. Kasdan sucked in his stomach and pulled back. Shrewd Ferd caught his self-consciousness about the perfectly normal pot a guy develops in later years; not much to be done about it. A pretty Petal appreciated something more than flat abs.
Soon there would be real money, an important secret, and goodbye to stingy caution. Once when Kasdan was a boy, long ago, so long ago, he noticed a beat-up Chevy convertible with rust holes in the body cruising around town, looking for a customer: ANTIQUE AUTO. SWAP FOR GOLD MINE OR B.O. Kasdan was too young to make a deal. Then he didn’t see it anymore, so someone’s B.O. had been accepted. Kasdan needed Ferd to pull him into enterprise. Wouldn’t it be better to live large? Late desire had come to him, thanks to unwilled, unplanned events.
He considered just doing the job, earning the reward for his cross-border risk, probably leading to a continuing sunset years career in the felony line. Ferd would be happy, Ferd and Dan the pals Ferd wanted them to be. Sharing. Sharing. Partners. In time he might also travel to Costa Rica, Baja, maybe even Argentina, following Ferd’s instructions and benefiting from his careful preparations, accumulating property, seeing the sights, cathedrals and iguanas, and while also living well, providing steady sustenance for Sergei, Amanda, and D’Wayne, who was trying his inadequate best to be a good husband and father. Nice hotel sojourns for the grandfather. Nice casual encounters in hotel bars. Maybe meeting someones he trusted and giving up condoms.
Why not? Others did.
Ferd was explaining, reiterating, recommending, cementing him in. “Buy expensive books, you like looks, read them if you want to!”
Dan could live large, way to go. This was America, California and San Francisco, where it was never too late if you had a friend like Ferd Conway.
“So let’s think bigger’n you used to, Dan. How expensive does a watch have to be before it stops being a watch and starts being a collectable? An heirloom? A timepiece for Sergei, he might straighten out someday, due to the best professional care? You’ll be making decisions about purchases, all goes well, based on…”
“I don’t mind Timex, Ferd. I’m not usually late…”
“…and no more Chef Boyardee dinners, partner. I bet you even eat it cold from the can.”
Kasdan had never sunk that low. Ferd was exaggerating his case, due to native mania and cappuccino rush. He shrugged, turning thoughtful, caffeine metabolizing, mania intact, and confessed: “I did. Lincoln Night Law School when the fuckers wouldn’t give me a student loan. Straight from the can, like drinking ketchup from the Foster’s table, with the free water, makes tomato juice. Not a taste treat, so let’s just say: Never again.”
Jerry Barrish, the bail bondsman and junk sculpture king, a San Francisco institution – elsewhere, bail bondsmen were not also cutting edge artists – stopped at their table on his way out to ask Kasdan if he’d heard about the dyslexic forger. “No time for jokes just now,” said Kasdan.
“But I just saw Ferd smiling! Anyway, this isn’t a joke, it’s a riddle.”
“Okay, but tomorrow, okay?”
Barrish noticed Ferd’s disapproval of the interruption, eyes averted, thumbs twiddling. That made two who didn’t need him, a majority of those present. After picking up a bent napkin dispenser, examining it from three dimensions with narrowed eyes, deciding it didn’t inspire him, deciding the pause proved that he wasn’t simply being chased away, disappointed both in good fellowship and stressed metal, he trudged off to his storefront office down the street, Open 24 Hours. It was hard to be an artist, plus hurtful to be a friend to friends who didn’t appreciate friendship.
When he was thoroughly gone, Ferd said, “Private discussion, Jerry.” Had he said it during his actual presence, Jerry would have suffered. See what a sweetheart I am, Dan?
“You’ve got enough money,” Kasdan said.
Startled, Ferd showed delight that the threads were being followed by his taciturn partner. “Sure, my condo, more than enough, so it’s natural I want more. Not just the loan, the mortgage, but you.”
Now it was Kasdan’s turn to look startled.
“Want to lift you from the dol-der-ums, Cowboy. Plus, you never really win in this life. The most, you can get ahead if you’re smart before you catch what I like to diagnose adult death syndrome, which I don’t prefer, but hey.”
/> “Deep waters, Ferd.”
Again Harvey Johnson was glaring at Kasdan across the room. The detective was allowed to tote around his big belly – an exception to SFPD fitness regulations – because he toted it gracefully and he also toted a heavy brain. He was not at all pleased about Dan’s company, his new close associate, and in Harvey’s opinion – an opinion which was heavy, like everything about him – Dan was spending too much time with the sleaze lawyer. Harvey made his own judgments, believing in fingerprints and DNA, believing in blood tests and careful monitoring of undue sweating, but not believing in polygraph interrogations because psychopaths had no trouble with them. He also did not believe in Ferd Conway as a proper breakfast buddy. Again Harvey raised one finger to Dan across the room, both a warning finger and a fuck-you finger. It was not a bid to join the discussion.
Ferd sensed Harvey’s finger. “Hey, since old Harv lost the kid in that driveby? In Newark?” he asked, needing no answer. He sipped the last of his coffee and sighed. “The first cup is the best, you notice that? Funny thing, the swartzer’s kid must’ve been in a gang, wore the blue bandana. They can’t seem to get civilized, that’s the problem.”
Harvey’s raised finger was more than a punctuation mark, less than a right turn signal. Kasdan was a better reader than Ferd, translating from the Spanish and also from the middle finger air-flick. Harvey’s finger stated: Asshole can change his rap, man, but not his natural-born DNA... The stud in Harvey’s ear was new, larger than the previous one, because a paltry little silver lobe decoration would be a disgrace to a belly moving forward inexorably with the years. On a different overweight plainclothes dick, a single stud might have looked silly; in Harvey’s ear, it didn’t. It went with his ever-fresh manicure (clear polish) and his regular consolation for the day’s travails provided by a Vietnamese darling wise beyond her years and miniature size.
Back when Kasdan was having breakfast more often with Harvey than with Ferd, Harvey explained that a whole subcontinent supported itself through the nail parlor and pedicure industry. Despite world trade agreements, manicures weren’t going offshore.
