“Ishmael said the insurance company issued a reservation of rights letter.”
“It did indeed. The letter is in the file.”
“Have you talked to the claims adjuster yet?”
“I have deprived myself of that rare pleasure, Miss Gold.” He turned and rummaged through the files piled on his credenza. “Here,” he said, spinning back to me. “This is the entire file, which I now bequeath, assign, devise, and transfer to you, Miss Gold.”
I took the file from him.
“The claims adjuster is one Cyril Burt,” he said, “out of Mid-Continent’s St. Louis office. The reservation of rights letter is in the correspondence section.”
I found it.
Melvin leaned over to point. “The marginalia on that letter is mine, including the exclamation marks and the expletives.”
The letter was three pages long, and the right margins on all three pages were decorated with the usual low-key observations one comes to expect from Melvin: at least five “Bullshit!s,” several “No!!!s,” and a few other similarly insightful comments, such as “Fool!” and “Give me a break!!”
“Those are merely my reactions upon reading Mr. Burt’s feeble-minded attempt at interpreting the insurance policy. I have not confronted him. When I learned that you would be taking over the file, I thought it best to allow you to handle that confrontation.”
“What else do you have on Stoddard?”
“The only other information I’ve obtained on him is in the press clippings file maintained by A & W’s public relations flack in St. Louis. Let’s see…” He shuffled through the papers on his desk and pulled a manila folder out from beneath a pile of deposition transcripts. “Here we are,” he said as he scanned the photocopied news clippings inside the folder. “These are for you.” He handed me the folder, which was stained with two coffee mug circles. “I had an extra copy made. Ah, yes, and I also have some computer printouts. Part of my legal research. The printouts are not directly on point, but you might as well have them. After all, Mr. Richardson instructed me to turn everything over to you. Everything but the proverbial kitchen sink.”
He frowned, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “Kitchen sink,” he repeated softly. “But of course!” He reached for the power button on the Lexis terminal but paused, his hands hovering over the keyboard. He looked at me. “May I, Miss Gold? I believe we were about to commence the ceremonial conclusion of our meeting. You don’t mind if we truncate the farewells, do you?”
“Certainly not, Melvin.”
Relieved, he switched on the terminal and started typing rapidly. “This is an excellent idea, just excellent.”
“For this case?” I asked.
“Oh, no.” He pressed the TRANSMIT key and lifted his hands off the keyboard, fingers twitching manically. “It’s for Bottles and Cans. We have a related insurance issue in Bottles and Cans.”
Abbott & Windsor represented two defendants in In re Bottles & Cans, the largest and oldest antitrust case in American history. The case kept sixteen A & W attorneys and more than a dozen paralegals busy full time. I had worked on the case when I was an A & W associate.
“Where are those computer printouts?” I asked. “I’ll take them and get out of your hair.”
“Right,” he said, reluctantly pulling his eyes away from the screen. He found the printouts on his desk and handed them to me just as the Lexis terminal beeped. The beep snapped his head back to the screen, like a hooked wide-mouth bass.
He was squinting at the screen, his jaw thrust forward, as I left his office.
“Lord have mercy!” he shouted in dismay, slamming his fist on the top of his desk. “Another Posner opinion!”
Chapter Three
My office is in an older building on West Washington Avenue. I bought an afternoon edition of the Trib from the newsstand in the lobby and checked the West Coast scores on the elevator ride to my floor. The Cards had dropped another one to the Padres.
I glanced at my watch as I got off the elevator. 5:40 p.m. Rush hour on the el trains would be ending in another twenty minutes. That gave me enough time to check my messages, finish my dictation, and walk to the subway station at Washington. By six o’clock I ought to be able to get a seat on the northbound train. I could read Stoddard Anderson’s news clippings on the ride home.
I stopped at my office door and—as I had been doing every day for the past several weeks—read the legend on the pebbleglass front and smiled. The main part had been there since I moved in four years ago:
THE LAW OFFICES
OF RACHEL GOLD
Attorney at Law
But four weeks ago the sign painters had returned to add the following legend beneath:
Benjamin Goldberg,
Of Counsel
Benny Goldberg had joined Abbott & Windsor one year before I did. He left two years after me. I left A & W to go into practice on my own. Benny left to become an associate professor of law at DePaul Law School.
Because of the squeeze on faculty office space, at the end of the school term in June the law school asked the three most junior faculty members to find alternate office space downtown. The office next to mine had been vacant for almost a year, ever since Mendel Klayman—the elderly Jewish CPA who kept trying to fix me up with his three-hundred-pound divorced son Sidney (“This is a good boy, Rachel”)—had retired and moved to Arizona with his wife and his three-hundred-pound divorced son Sidney. With the office vacant, it was a perfect arrangement: The law school would not only pick up Benny’s rent but pay for the cost of knocking out a wall to connect Benny’s office with the reception area to mine.
But what really made it perfect was having Benny nearby again. He was fat and he was crude. But he was also my best friend, and I loved him like the brother I never had.
I walked into the tiny reception area of my office and was surprised to see Mary still there. She usually left before five-thirty. Mary seemed a little flustered to see me.
“Everything okay?” I asked as I leaned against the wall and eased off my shoes.
“Sure,” she said. “Great. Everything’s great.”
“How come you’re still here?” I asked, looking down as I wiggled my toes.
“Oh, just catching up on my filing.”
“Where’s Benny?” I asked, nodding toward his darkened office.
Mary smiled, regaining her composure. “You know him. He said he had a hot date with one of his students.”
I rolled my eyes. “We better increase the saltpeter in his coffee. Any messages?”
Mary raised her eyebrows. “A couple. I put them in your office.”
I looked at her funny, and she averted her eyes. Mary normally put my telephone messages on the message spike at her desk.
“You sure you’re okay?”
She blushed as she nodded.
Puzzled, I walked to my office door, turned the knob, and stepped in.
“SURPRISE!”
My office was filled with people in party hats. Benny stood behind my desk, beaming. He led the roomful of friends in a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday,” with Mary joining in from behind. The birthday cake was round and decorated to look like Busch Stadium. Written in white script on the green icing in the outfield was the message “Happy 32nd Birthday, Rachel.”
I had completely forgotten that today was my birthday. As I leaned over to blow out the candles, I could feel my eyes watering. There were hugs and kisses and several gag gifts (including five pairs of edible panties from Benny, who explained to the grossed-out crowd that it seemed like a practical gift for both of us since I could use the underwear and he was always looking for a late-afternoon snack). After the cake and ice cream, the pizza and beer arrived.
The last friends left around nine that night. After Benny, Mary, and I finished cleaning up, Benny offered to drive Mary and me
home. Mary said she was meeting her boyfriend at the Esquire Theater for the ten o’clock show. We dropped her off at the corner of Oak Street, and then Benny pulled onto Lake Shore Drive.
As we headed north on the Drive, I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks,” I said. “That was the best birthday ever.”
Benny shrugged. “Sure. My pleasure.”
We drove in silence on the Drive.
“I can’t believe I’m thirty-two,” I said glumly as I stared out the window toward Lake Michigan.
“Hey, I’m thirty-three,” he said as he pulled the car to a stop at the red light at the Hollywood exit at the end of Lake Shore Drive. “So what?”
I shrugged. “Do you ever want to get married?”
“Are you kidding me? Does the wild Pope shit in the woods? Married? How ‘bout tonight? We could fly to Vegas.”
“Not to me, you bozo. I mean in principle.”
“I’ve never been in a principal,” he said slipping into his Groucho Marx voice. “But I once had a great night with a gym teacher.”
Benny turned right onto Sheridan after banging on the horn and bellowing some rather specific and impossible anatomical suggestions at the sluggish driver ahead of us.
“Benny, I’m serious.”
“So am I. She was so impressed she gave me one of those President’s Council on Physical Fitness Awards.”
Despite myself, I had to smile. “You?”
Benny covered his heart and winced. “Real sensitive, Rachel. Never underestimate the erotic talents of a full-figured man.”
“Oh?” I was laughing.
“O ye of little faith,” he said with a sigh. “They laughed at Thomas Edison, too. Well, join me on my waterbed tonight, Miss Too Busy To Be A Homecoming Queen, Miss Smarty Pants Communist, and you’ll discover just exactly why I’ve earned the rank of Tongue Ninja.”
North of the Loyola campus, just beyond the 400 Theater, Benny turned onto my street and stopped in front of my apartment building. He left the engine idling.
“Give me a raincheck, Benny-san.”
“Promises, promises. Rachel, someday you’ll receive my generous offers with the enthusiasm they deserve.”
“And someday you’ll receive the electroshock therapy you so richly deserve. Listen, Dr. Demento, thank you for that wonderful birthday party.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “See you tomorrow.”
“Hey, Rachel,” Benny said as I closed the car door.
I leaned against the open passenger window. “What?”
“You never told me about your meeting. What did Ishmael want?”
“Me. He retained me to represent the widow of the managing partner of A and W’s St. Louis office. Her husband committed suicide last month. They think she might get the runaround from the insurance company. The firm would handle it themselves except they may have a conflict of interest.”
“What’s the conflict?”
I gave him the short version.
“Four days, huh?” Benny said. “The guy’s missing for four days? No one knows what he was doing?”
I shrugged. “Not yet.”
“That’s weird. You going down to St. Louis tomorrow?”
“Probably. I have to first call a bunch of people in St. Louis. Set up some appointments. I might drive down after work.”
“So I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”
“Yep. Good night, Benny.”
“Goodnight, Rachel.”
I watched Benny drive off in his 1970 Chevy Nova. Attached to the rear window was Benny’s version of the yellow, diamond-shaped BABY ON BOARD sign. It read ENDOMORPH ON BOARD. He had designed it himself, and used it shamelessly to get preferred parking at concerts and sporting events. “Sir,” he would tell the parking attendant, “I’d be grateful for a spot near an exit. I’m an endomorph.” And then he would solemnly point to the ENDOMORPH ON BOARD sign.
I watched until Benny’s car turned the corner, and then I walked into the foyer of my apartment building. Ozzie must have heard my key in the mailbox, because he bounded down the stairs as I stuffed the mail into my briefcase. He was waiting for me, tail wagging furiously, on the other side of the door that separated the building foyer from the hallway and stairs leading to the apartments.
Ozzie is my golden retriever. He spends the weekdays with my downstairs neighbors/landlords, John and Linda Burns, and their two children, Katie and Ben. Linda stays home with the kids, and Ozzie keeps them company during the day. It’s a nice arrangement for all of us, especially Ozzie, who loves all the attention. Tonight I had called Linda from my office to let her know I’d be late. She had fed Ozzie, taken him for a walk, and left him sitting outside my apartment door.
“Hey, Oz!” I said, rubbing him behind his ear as we walked up the two flights of stairs to my apartment on the top floor of the three-flat. As I put my key in the deadbolt lock, Ozzie jumped up, placed his front paws on my shoulders and licked me on the cheek.
Ozzie squeezed past me as the door opened, and I followed him into my apartment, kicking off my shoes in the entranceway and dropping my briefcase and purse onto the couch in the living room. I went into the bedroom, undressed, slipped on my purple and gold boxing robe, and padded barefoot back into the living room. I clicked on the light and reached over to turn on the stereo. My favorite Marvin Gaye cassette was in the tape player, and I settled back in the couch to the opening notes of “Mercy, Mercy Me.”
The mail included bills, the usual junk mail solicitations, this week’s issue of Sports Illustrated, this month’s issue of Gourmet, and what had to be a birthday card from my sister, Ann. It was. Signed by Ann, her husband-the-orthodontist Richie, and my niece and nephew. I smiled at the thought that I would be seeing them soon.
“I’m going to have to leave you for a couple days, Ozzie,” I said as I rewound the telephone answering machine and pressed the play button.
I smiled as I listened to my parents, all the way from Israel, singing an atonal and totally wonderful rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
“We love you, Rachel,” my mother said at the end of the song. “Your father is fine, and my elbow is better. Well, it still hurts a little. You know who I saw at the King David yesterday? Harriet Eichler. Bob Eichler’s mother.”
I groaned as I listened, knowing what was coming.
“She said her Bobby hasn’t stopped talking about you since he saw you at the Kimmelman wedding in June. I told Harriet you were dying to see him again.”
“Mother!”
“Now don’t get upset, Rachel. He’s a doctor, and a nice Jewish boy. It wouldn’t kill you to see him at Rosh Hashonah. I told Harriet to tell her son to drop by after services.”
“Can you believe this?” I said to Ozzie, who nuzzled his head against my stomach.
“We love you, Rachel. We’ll come visit to Chicago when we get back. Here, Seymour, say happy birthday to your daughter. Quick, this is costing a fortune.”
But the tape ran out before my father was able to say anything.
***
My departure for St. Louis was delayed by several hours, first at the office by a seemingly endless string of telephone calls and minor client crises, and then at home by a flat tire. Actually two flats, including the spare—a going-away present I remembered after I had removed the left front tire and reached into the trunk for the spare.
I had hoped to beat the rush hour traffic out of Chicago; instead, the rush hour traffic beat me…by several hours. I called my sister Ann just before I left my apartment at eight o’clock; I told her not to wait up.
Thirty miles south of Springfield I pulled off I-55 for some gasoline and to stretch my legs. It was almost midnight, and I still had more than an hour of driving ahead of me.
After paying for my gas, I bought a Diet Coke from the vending machine and walked the perimeter
of the station, out where the huge moths zipped and dived around the overhead lights, like manic electrons in one of those elementary school movies on the atom. Standing at the edge of the asphalt, I popped the tab on the can and took a sip. The gas station was just off an overpass. Three trucks rumbled by, heading south. I watched the red tail lights fade into the distance.
A gas station off an interstate highway, especially at night, seems to exist in limbo between the beginning and end of journeys. Stand near the pumps at any one of them and wait for the memories to seep through. As I stood there, I remembered driving home to St. Louis from law school, twenty hours straight, drinking black coffee and smoking cigarettes to stay awake. I remembered driving to Florida with three girlfriends in college over spring break. I remembered driving to Champaign, Illinois, back in high school for a Grateful Dead concert. And most of all I remembered curling up in the back seat with my sister Ann, both of us in elementary school, as my father tried to refold the road map in the front seat, somewhere in Kansas on the drive back from a vacation in Estes Park, Colorado.
The house was dark and quiet when I arrived at 1:30 a.m. I snuck upstairs to the guest bedroom, where the sheets were turned down and a fresh towel was folded on the pillow. On top of the pillow was a crayon drawing of a baseball Cardinal by my nephew, Cory; underneath the ballplayer he had written: “Hi, Aunt Rachel. Love, Cory.” I carefully placed the drawing on the nightstand.
I took the Stoddard Anderson news clippings file to bed. My day would start early, and I still didn’t have a real sense of the dead attorney who had been married to my newest client.
Even a cursory browse through the clippings showed that Melvin Needlebaum was right. Anderson had been well connected, locally and nationally. His national connections within the Republican Party were evidenced by a front-page article in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch from last December. The article described a visit to St. Louis by President George Bush. The visit included a dinner for local GOP bigwigs hosted by Stoddard Anderson at the St. Louis Country Club.
Abbott & Windsor’s arrival in St. Louis last summer merited a front-page story in the St. Louis Business Journal beneath the following headline:
Death Benefits Page 3
