Mortal Bonds

by Michael Sears

  She stared at me, head cocked to one side. “That sounds nothing like me,” she finally said.

  It sounded just like my ex-wife.

  “From everything you’ve ever told me,” she continued, “it sounds exactly like Angie.”

  My tongue seemed to have grown to three times its normal size. Maybe I could choke on it and die. Anything was better than trying to explain a faux pas I did not understand myself.

  “That is a very weird thing to say, Jason.” She placed her knife and fork down on her plate.

  “Let me take another shot at it. I can do better.”

  Not even another guy would have bought into that line.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “I mean, I know what’s wrong, but what else is wrong? Is there something else we should be talking about?” She sounded reasonable and straightforward, and I was dumb enough to fall for it.

  “It’s not really that big a deal.”

  She nodded as though she understood. It should have been a warning alarm.

  “Angie called. She’s coming to New York. She wants to visit with the Kid. Try to reconnect.” Having the bad news out there where we could both look at it felt a lot better than holding it back.

  But as my father had once said, “If you feel good giving somebody bad news, you fucked up.”

  “And you’re going to let her?” Skeli said.

  This was not an unreasonable question. Angie’s care of our boy had been one step short of child abuse. But there was, in my opinion, one overriding opposing argument.

  “She’s his mother.”

  “Mother crocodiles just eat their young.”

  “Actually, they don’t. It just looks that way.” Now I was defending crocodile mothers. Skeli gave me the look that said “You’re an idiot.” She had a point. “I can’t keep her away. She has visitation rights. If I tried, she’d have me in court in a heartbeat. I’m not going down that road again.”

  After kidnapping my son, Angie and her abusive co-dependent drinking buddy—aka her second husband—had been stopped by the police and the FBI in Virginia, where, the next day, Angie had convinced a draconian Family Court judge to turn over the Kid and grant her full custody. It had been the worst day of my life.

  Skeli was nodding as I talked, but whether in sympathy, understanding, or impatience, I could not be sure. “When?”

  “When did she call? Last night.”

  “No. When is she coming?”

  “Tuesday. She’s bringing her mother and brother. They’re going to stay for two weeks and go back. She sublet a furnished apartment on Central Park West.”

  “Wait. You said they’re going to stay. How long is she staying in town?”

  That was the bigger news. I might have gotten away with calling a quick visit “no big deal,” but Angie had rented the place for a month.

  “A month.”

  “A month!”

  “Or less.”

  “She wants you back.”

  Too terrifying to bear thinking about. “No.”

  “You’re an idiot. Sorry, let me rephrase that. This kind of thing is not what you are good at. Better? Trust me, she wants you back.”

  “When she signed over sole custody to me, she was at one of her many low points. Maybe she’s having some second thoughts. Nothing serious. She’ll come take the Kid for a few playdates, spoil him rotten, upset his routine, and fly back to Lafayette, where she gets to be the big-city celebrity in a small town. End of story.”

  “Credulity does not become you. You are a professional cynic; why are you so gullible where she’s concerned?”

  I thought that was a one-sided view of the situation. But I couldn’t immediately come up with any other.

  “Come on, Skeli. We can deal with this.”

  “Don’t call me that.” We had officially gone from a discussion to a dispute, and I was not keeping up. “She will upset the Kid’s schedule, and you just shrug it off?”

  “I will keep it to a minimum.”

  “Jason. It’s you she’s after. She doesn’t care about the Kid. At best, he’s a means to an end—you. And much more likely, he’s an annoyance that she will fob off on her mother again first chance she gets.”

  “No más. No más,” I said, hands in the air.

  “And what am I supposed to be doing when she’s around? Are you telling me that my next role is going to be running competition with Miss Tits on a Stick? The Cajun Queen from Narcissus, Louisiana! Like hell, I will. Christ!” She threw up her hands in recognition of the one subject we had been content to avoid. “I won’t even be here!”

  “Please, you’re making way too much of this. Her being here changes nothing with you and me.”

  She finally stopped fuming, and her eyes went soft. “That’s nice. You’re a nice man. But, godalmighty, you can be such a dope.” I thought she was going to tear up. She didn’t tear up easily. Or willingly. “Excuse me.” She stood up. “I’ve got to find the ladies’ room.”

  I was alone with a cold duck and a great view.

  “She’s taking it well, don’t you think?” I said to the duck. Cold and dead like me, the duck didn’t say anything.

  I sat there thinking how I could have handled the conversation better. I could not imagine how I might have handled it worse. I blamed myself and Skeli and Angie. It felt comfortable blaming Angie. And myself. But Skeli was the one who had taken the beating.

  Was she right? That was what had me scared about Angie’s visit. I had no wish to become entrapped in the briar patch of our old lives. I had moved on. Happily. I didn’t think I was weak enough to fall for her all over again. I knew myself—and her—too well for that. But I didn’t want to be tested. If Angie wanted to play visiting mother for a few weeks, I was willing to allow it. With my personal supervision, whether she liked it or not, though that would put us in close proximity more often than I would have liked. Or than Skeli would like. But why would she want me back? She had my money and she had her freedom. The best of both worlds. So, why was Skeli so sure? Was she just feeling threatened herself? I had had at least one too many Bellinis to deal with all those questions.

  The busboy reappeared. “Is everything all right?”

  Nothing was right. “Yes, thanks.”

  “Would you like coffee? Or would you care to see the dessert menu?”

  “Not right now,” I said. “I’ll wait for my date to get back.”

  He gave me a very uncomfortable look. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think she’s coming back.”

  “What?”

  “I just saw her get into a Town Car a few minutes ago. She’s gone.”

  • • •

  SUNDAY EVENING, Pop appeared at my front door with the Kid fast asleep in his arms. I held the door open, and he went directly to the Kid’s room and laid him on his bed. I held the door and stayed out of his way.

  The Kid gave a grunt and a short, snorting snore and rolled over, dead to the world.

  “Nice work, Pop. Did you drug him?”

  “He’s had a big day,” he said, peeling off the boy’s new shoes. White with Velcro straps and red and blue flashing lights in the heels.

  “Cool,” I said, shaking my head in wonder. I would never have predicted that the Kid would have chosen footwear so obviously distracting.

  “He picked ’em out,” Pop whispered.

  “Then they’re the right ones,” I answered.

  I tucked a sheet tightly around my son, and the two of us backed out of the room.

  “Can I get you something? Coffee? Water? Wine? Something to eat?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to go. I’m double-parked. Estrella’s watching the car.”

  “Just tell me. How did the Kid like the sharks?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Fish don’t move the boy—yet. I thi
nk I may bring him around. But they’ve got a pool with seals out front and he would have jumped right in with them, if we’d let him.”

  “Thank you for not letting him. And thanks for getting him his shoes.”

  He shrugged and headed for the door. “How was your day? Did you and Skeli do anything fun?” he said over his shoulder.

  “Ah,” I said.

  He stopped and turned back to me.

  “What?”

  “As much as it hurts me to say this, you were right. Skeli is not happy about Angie coming to town—especially now that she’ll be away.”

  “Ahuh.”

  “And I think I could have handled it better.”

  “Ahuh. Have you said that to her?”

  “She’s not answering her phone.”

  He looked as though he had something more to say, but he stopped himself. “I’m sorry, bud. And I think, for once, I will keep my good advice to myself.”

  “Thanks, Pop.”

  He was gone.

  | 7 |

  Patrick “Paddy” Gallagher had lunch at Joe Allen’s six days a week. Sundays he took his mother to brunch at the Plaza.

  He was sitting alone at a deuce against the wall with a good view of the front door. He waved me over the minute I walked in.

  “Jason, howahya, howahya? Siddown, whacha drinking?”

  “Nice to see you, Paddy. I’ll have a Guinness.” Paddy claimed not to trust people who didn’t drink, so whether I wanted it or not, I was having a cocktail with lunch.

  “And have a shot with it,” he said.

  Paddy turned and flashed a young waiter a million-dollar smile and gave the order. The waiter nodded and headed for the bar.

  Then Paddy turned the smile back on me. He was not a large man, but he always seemed to take up more than his share of the available space. He had an actor’s face, the features all a bit oversized, with Paul Newman eyes and a pair of thick, silver eyebrows that seemed to be in constant motion, signaling each minute change in thought or emotion. But the smile was what grabbed you. Teeth that large, bright, and perfectly formed had to be store-bought.

  “So, whadaya know? What’s the good word?”

  Paddy had started three different Wall Street firms over his forty years in the securities business. He had sold each one in succession for ever greater numbers. Each time, he had signed a short-term noncompete clause, spent a year or so working on other projects, and then come back and started a new firm, hiring away all the best talent from his old firm. He had tried to hire me twice, and though I hadn’t jumped, we had become friendly, if not friends.

  “Doing odd jobs. Getting by. My son just turned six. Life is good.”

  He nodded. “Somebody told me you helped Stockman clean up a mess during the buyout last year.”

  “The Feds are taking their time following up on it.”

  The waiter arrived and placed my beer and two large glasses of amber liquid in front of us. There wasn’t much ice.

  “Could I get a water, too?” I asked.

  He nodded and left.

  “Sláinte,” Paddy said. We touched glasses and drank. Paddy drank only top-shelf Irish whiskey. Midleton or Jameson’s Gold at thirty dollars a shot. It tasted like firewater to me.

  “Did you hear they’re making Stockman move to Nashville?” he said.

  I tried to imagine the little Napoleon having to sell his Park Avenue duplex and move his art-collecting-circle wife to mid-America.

  “It won’t last,” I said.

  “Ahdohno. They got him wrapped in golden chains. If he bails on them, he’s gonna leave some serious money behind.”

  Stockman had paid me well and on time. Other than that, though, he was never going to be on my A-list. I wasn’t going to waste tears on him.

  “So how’s showbiz, Paddy?”

  Paddy had started investing in Broadway shows thirty years ago. It had been a sideline. Fun. But the first time he had to sit on the bench for a year—after he sold his first firm—he began devoting more time to it. By the time he took his final buyout—from a Dutch firm looking to expand in the U.S.—he was a full-time producer with three Tony Awards to his credit. He got involved in anything that grabbed his attention. He had done new musicals, revivals, dramas, and comedies on Broadway, Off-Broadway, and national touring companies. Never married, he had started appearing at restaurants, clubs, and openings, always with a carousel of famous female actors or entertainers on his arm. He was a regular on Page Six of the Post. He wore dark suits that looked almost black—they were actually deep purple, but you had to catch him in the right light to see it—with gold-colored socks. He was the only person I have ever known who wore an ascot—also gold. And he carried it off.

  “I’m reading scripts. Talking to some people. Maybe something comes of it, we’ll see. Meanwhile, I’ve still got two shows on the boards that made it through the winter. They’re not making me rich, but . . .” He waved his hand in the so-so gesture.

  The waiter returned with my water. “Did you want to order, Mr. Gallagher?” The waiter pronounced it correctly, with the silent g in the last syllable.

  “Yeah, my usual, thanks.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” I said.

  “No, don’t do that,” Paddy said. Then, to the waiter, “Bring him a burger. Make the fries well done. How do you like it? Medium rare?”

  I nodded.

  “Medium rare.” His attention went to the door behind me. “Benny! Howahya?” He flashed Benny the smile and gave a small wave. He continued the big smile while whispering to me. “I hate that sonofabitch.” Then, in normal tones again, “So, you doin’ anything in the markets? I think maybe gold is toppy here.”

  Gold had made another all-time new high the day before.

  “Only the sight of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could justify these levels,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “So maybe I stick with the trade a little longer.” The smile flashed again as someone else came in the door.

  When it came to trading, Paddy never showed his hand. Though officially retired, he still traded, mostly futures, every day from his desk in the production office.

  “So, you want to hear about me and William Von Becker.”

  I had mentioned it when I set up the lunch.

  “My ‘old friend’ William Von Becker. People think we met on Wall Street. Not so. We grew up together.” He paused. “Kinda.”

  Paddy Gallagher let anyone and everyone know that he had grown up on one of New York’s toughest streets in what was now called Clinton, but was known back then as Hell’s Kitchen. Not many kids made it out of that neighborhood, unless it was on their way to Sing Sing or Attica—or the morgue.

  “Little Billy Becker from Forty-seventh Street. That ‘Von’ stuff? Bullshit. It suddenly appeared when he went to Trinity. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but Becker was always a con. I just never knew how far he’d take it.”

  “How do you get from Forty-seventh Street to Trinity?” Trinity was in the top ranks of New York City private schools.

  “Same way I did it. You bust your goddamn ass. It helps if you’re also smart, but it still takes a lot of hard work. We both got scholarships in high school. I went to Regis, Billy to Trinity.”

  “And you were friends back then?”

  “No. We knew who the other one was, but we grew up on different blocks. That was very important back then.”

  “But you met up again later.”

  “I came out of Fordham still talking like a Westie with the kind of polish you get from eight years with the Jesuits. Which is none. I landed a job as a runner at Merrill. When I met up with Becker he was fresh out of Williams and spoke, dressed, and acted like he grew up on Sutton Place. The kind of guy who you know doesn’t ever fart,
know what I mean? He was a trainee in private banking at Morgan. They already had him marked for big things.”

  “So, how did the friendship get started?”

  “Let me set the record straight, all right? We were never friends. The press called me his best friend because his wife told them that. The guy never had a friend in his life. She also said I engineered the whole deal—which is also bullshit. We did a lot of business together over the years. He invested in every one of my firms, and a few of the shows. I let him manage some of my money over the years. And we played poker once a month with the same group of guys for eighteen years. But we were never ‘friends.’”

  “Your lunch, gentlemen.” The waiter set our plates down. My burger was huge. The pile of fries was even bigger.

  Paddy had a fillet of some white fish that appeared to have been poached in milk. “I got stomach issues,” he said in response to my stare. He took another sip of whiskey.

  “Paddy, I’m sorry I said that. I won’t call him your friend again. Okay? I was just spouting off based on what I heard.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “No harm, no foul. No, we kept running into each other over the years. We did some deals together. It was more like a habit than a friendship.”

  I bit into a french fry. I immediately wanted another. “You want to try some of these? I’ve got more than I’ll ever eat.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll just watch.”

  I ate in silence for a few minutes. Paddy broke up the fish with the side of his fork and moved the pieces around on his plate. Then he sipped his whiskey again.

  “Paaaahhddy!” a mannered voice said from behind me. An attractive blonde in her late forties bent over and placed a kiss on his cheek. She gave me a quick look to be sure I wasn’t someone important that she might be snubbing, and having obviously decided that I wasn’t and it was okay to snub me, turned back to Paddy. I knew her from somewhere.

  “You haven’t been to see my show yet,” she scolded.