The Sixth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  I lost all hope.

  “Five feet, three and three-eighths inches, sir,” I said.

  He nodded. “How soon can you start?” he said.

  I don’t believe my jaw dropped. I don’t believe I staggered, blinked, and swallowed. But I can’t be sure.

  “Immediately, sir,” I said.

  He nodded again. He leaned forward, lifted one of those dead hands, and with a forefinger that looked like it had been pickled in brine, depressed one of the buttons on the telephone intercom.

  “Miss Apatoff,” he said loudly, “the position has been filled. Thank the others and dismiss them.”

  Then he sat back in his swivel chair again and regarded me gravely.

  “Name?” he said.

  “Joshua Bigg, sir.”

  He didn’t laugh, or even smile.

  “From where?” he asked.

  “Iowa, sir.”

  “Education?”

  “BA degree, sir. With honors.”

  “Miss Apatoff, the lady in the hallway, will take you to our office manager, Hamish Hooter. He will complete the necessary paperwork and instruct you in your duties.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Salary?” he said.

  “Oh, well, yes, sir,” I said confusedly. “What is the salary?”

  “A hundred a week,” he said, still staring at me. “Satisfactory?”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  He raised one finger from the desk blotter. I took this as a gesture of dismissal, and turned to go. I was at the door when he called…

  “Mr. Bigg.”

  I turned.

  He had risen. Now I could see his size.

  “I,” he said proudly, “am five feet, three and seven-eighths inches tall.”

  Only after I had left the office did it occur to me to ask the pulchritudinous receptionist to whom I had just been speaking. “Oh, that’s Mr. Teitelbaum, senior partner, and I’m Yetta Apatoff,” she added, bending forward enough so that I got a glimpse of cleavage I would never forget. “Welcome to TORT.”

  And that’s how I came to work for Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum.

  I stayed in the mailroom about two years, during which my salary was increased four times to a gratifying $150 a week, and my hopeless passion for Miss Yetta Apatoff, our nubile receptionist, grew in even larger increments.

  And, finally, my opportunity for advancement came, as I knew it would.

  One of the more than 50 employees of TORT was Mr. Roscoe Dollworth, who bore the title of Chief Investigator. This was a kindness since he was our only investigator. Dollworth was an ex-New York City policeman who had resigned from the Department for “medical reasons.” He was an enormously fat drunk, but neither his girth nor his awesome intake of vodka (from a thermos kept in plain view on his desk) interfered with the efficient performance of his duties.

  A salaried investigator for a large firm of attorneys is assigned the same tasks smaller legal associations might delegate to private investigators, as needed. Tracking down witnesses, verifying clients’ alibis and those of the opposition, escorting recalcitrant witnesses to the courtroom, locating technical experts whose testimony might be advantageous, and so forth.

  In addition, there had been several instances in which Roscoe Dollworth had conducted original investigations into the culpability of clients accused of crimes, although criminal defense was only a small part of TORT’s activities. In all such cases, Dollworth’s past association with the New York Police Department proved of great value. This was probably why his employment was continued despite that desktop jug of vodka. Also, the Chief Investigator was 61 years old at the time I joined Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum, and he had made it clear that he intended to retire to Florida at the age of 65, to play shuffleboard and watch the pelicans.

  I believe Roscoe Dollworth liked me. I know I liked him. He never made any slurring references to my size, and treated me more as a friend man as the lowest man on the TORT totem pole. So I was happy to run his errands: dash out to buy him a fresh quart of vodka or hurry back from my own lunch to bring him the hot pepperoni pizza he ate at his desk each day (the whole pizza, plus pickles, peppers, and a frightening wedge of pineapple cheesecake).

  In return, he told me stories of cases in which he had been involved while he was a uniformed patrolman and later as a detective, third-grade. He also taught me the techniques and tricks of a professional investigator, all of which I found fascinating. I hadn’t realized police methods were that complex, or how few of them could be found in books. They could only be learned through personal experience, or the experience of other cops.

  Occasionally, when I had time, and always with the permission of one of the three senior partners of TORT (Sean Reilly had died seven years previously; he had choked to death on a piece of rare London broil), Roscoe Doll worth would send me out on an investigative task. These began as simple assignments: find the apartment number of so-and-so, check where this man parks his car, see if you can discover when this woman divorced her first husband.

  Gradually, over a period of months, Dollworth’s requests became more involved and more intriguing.

  “Doing anything tonight, Josh? No? Good. Follow this guy. He says he goes to a chess club every Wednesday night. I ain’t so sure. Don’t let him spot you. This is a divorce action.”

  Or… “Find out who really owns this nightclub, will you? You’ll have to start out down at the Hall, checking records. You’ll learn how it’s done.”

  Or… “See if this dame has any regular visitors. She lives alone—but who knows? You may have to slip the doorman a fin. But no more than that, or he won’t respect you. This involves the probate of a will.”

  And so on…

  I completed all my assignments successfully, and began to wonder if I didn’t have a natural talent for investigation. Part of my success, I thought, might be due to my physical appearance. It was impossible for me to come on strong, and my shy, hesitant, almost helpless manner seemed to arouse the kind of sympathy which urged, “Let’s help the boy out.” And so I succeeded with the same methods that had aided me in my conquests of women: the whole world wanted to take me onto its lap.

  I had been with TORT for almost two years when Roscoe Dollworth called me into his office, commanded me to shut the door and sit down.

  This time, it wasn’t about an assignment, exactly. It was about much more than that.

  I said nothing, just watched Mr. Dollworth pour himself a paper cup of vodka from his thermos. He sipped it slowly, staring at me thoughtfully across his desk.

  He was a blobby man, with a belly that kept his swivel chair two feet from his desk. His scraggly, straw-colored hair was thinning; patches of freckled scalp showed through. Darkish eyebrows were so snarled that I had seen him comb them. His nose had evidently been broken several times; it just didn’t know which way to turn. His lips were glutinous, teeth tobacco-stained. But the eyes were hard and squinchy. Looking at those eyes made me happy I was his friend and not an enemy.

  “Look, kid,” he said finally in a deep, burpy voice, “let me tell you what’s been happening. You know, I figure to retire in a couple of years, if this miserable ulcer don’t kill me first. That means they got to replace me—right? So I went to old man Teitelbaum. He likes you—you know? He hired you because you’re the only guy in the joint smaller than he is. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I knew.”

  “Well…” he said, sipping vodka, “you turned out real good. I mean, you work hard, don’t steal stamps, and you’re polite. Always ready with a smile. Everyone here likes you. Except maybe Hamish Hooter, that prick. But he don’t like anyone. Except maybe Yetta Apatoff. Hooter would like to like her—about six inches’ worth.”

  I nodded dumbly.

  “So I says to Teitelbaum, how about promoting Josh Bigg to investigator? Let him work with me my last two years, I says, and I guarantee to teach him the ropes. By the
time I step down, you’ll have a spry young man ready to fill my shoes, a guy who knows his way around. I told Teitelbaum how good you done on those little jobs I gave you. This kid, I says, has got a good nut on his shoulders. Give him a chance, and you’ll have an A-Number One Investigator in your organization.”

  I was excited. I slid forward to the edge of my chair. I leaned eagerly toward Dollworth.

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said no,” the Chief Investigator said regretfully. “He said you were too young. He said you didn’t have the experience. He said he wanted another ex-cop to take my place.”

  I collapsed.

  “Wait a minute,” Dollworth said, holding up a hand like a smoked ham. “I never take a turndown without I put up a fight. I said you might look young, but by the time I retire, you’ll be thirty—right?—and your brain is older than that. Also, I says, as far as experience goes, I can teach you most of what you’ll have to know, and the rest you’ll pick up as you go along. And as for hiring an ex-cop, I says, if he wants another rumdum like me, that’s his business. But an investigator gets out a lot, meets the public, and he should make a good impression as a representative of the firm. And you dress neat, wear a jacket and pants that match, and a tie and all. Then I throw in the clincher. Also, I tell Teitelbaum, you hire an ex-cop to take my place, you’ll be lucky to get away paying him twenty G’s a year. You could get Bigg to do the same work for half of that.”

  “What did he say to that?” I asked breathlessly.

  “They’re having a meeting this afternoon,” Roscoe Dollworth said. “The three senior partners. I’ll let you know how it comes out. Meanwhile, my jug is getting low. How’s about you rushing the growler for me?”

  Late that afternoon I was informed that the senior partners of Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum, in solemn conclave assembled, had decreed that I was to be replaced in the mailroom and, for a period of two years, be apprenticed to Chief Investigator Dollworth. At the end of that period, the senior partners would accept Dollworth’s judgment on whether I was or was not qualified to assume his office upon his retirement. During my apprenticeship, I would continue to earn $150 a week.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Roscoe Dollworth assured me, winking. “It’s in the bag. I’m going to run your ass ragged. You’ll learn.”

  He did, and I did. For the next two years I worked harder than I thought possible, sometimes putting in an eighteen-hour day in my determination to master my new craft.

  There were so many things Dollworth taught me that it would be impossible to list them all. They included a basic education in such matters as criminal and civil law, the right of privacy, and the rules of evidence, and instruction on such practical matters as how to pick a lock, the best methods of shadowing on a crowded street, and what equipment to take along on an extended stakeout. (The first item was an empty milk carton in which one might relieve oneself.)

  In addition to Dollworth’s lectures and the actual investigations assigned to me with increasing frequency, I also did a great deal of studying at home. My books were manuals of the New York Police Academy, which Dollworth obtained for me, plus heavy volumes on the law, legal procedures, and criminology which I purchased or borrowed from the public library.

  At the end of my two-year apprenticeship, I felt, with my indefatigable optimism, that I had mastered the arcane mysteries of my new profession, and was well qualified to become Chief Investigator of TORT. I must have conveyed some of this conceit to my mentor, for a few days prior to his retirement, he called me into his office, slammed the door, and delivered himself of the following:

  “You think you know it all, do you? You make me sick, you do! You know nothing. Nothing! A wise wrongo could have you running around in circles, chasing your tail. Wait’ll you come up against a liar, a good liar. You won’t know if you’re coming or going. You’re just on the ground floor, kiddo. You got a helluva lot to learn. I seen the way you look at that Yetta Apatoff. If she said jump out the window, out you’d go. But what if a twist exactly like her was a suspect, and you had to get the goods on her? Shit, all you’d see would be B&B, boobs and behind, and she’d take a walk. Bye-bye, birdie. Josh, you’ve got to learn to doubt everyone. Suspect everyone. It’s a hard, cruel world out there, filled with bad guys and millions of others who would be bad if they weren’t scared of being caught. Never, never believe what people tell you until you check it out. Never, never let your personal feelings interfere with your job. And most of all, never believe that because a woman is beautiful or a man is handsome, successful, and contributes to his church, that they can’t be the slimiest crooks in the world. Most of the people you meet will be out to con you. So you just smile and say, ‘Uh-huh,’ and start checking them out. Josh, you’ve got a lot going for you. You got a brain on you, you can get people to open up, and you got a good imagination. Maybe too good. But what worries me most about you is that you’re so innocent, so fucking innocent!”

  But my shortcomings had not deterred Roscoe Dollworth from recommending me as his successor. A week later he was off to Florida with a set of matching luggage from the employees of TORT, a $5,000 retirement bonus, and a pair of fine German binoculars I gave him.

  “To watch the pelicans,” I told him.

  “Sure, kid,” he said, hitting my arm. “Very nice. I’ll send you my address. Keep in touch. If I can ever help you out with the Department, let me know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dollworth,” I said. “For everything.”

  During the next twenty-six months I was made mournfully aware of the difference between on-the-job training under the tutelage of an experienced investigator and having full responsibility, without supervision, for all investigative activities of Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum.

  First of all, requests for investigations flowed into my office from the three senior partners, seven junior partners (including Tabatchnick II and Orsini II and III), twelve associates, law clerks, paralegal assistants, and the despicable office manager, Hamish Hooter. It took me awhile to get a system of priorities organized and to learn to deal with all these strong-willed and redoubtable individuals. (The legal profession seems to have the effect of first enlarging egos and then setting them permanently in concrete.)

  Everyone wanted his request for information dealt with instanter, and initially I was overwhelmed; but, after observing the snail’s speed unraveling of most of the litigation handled by TORT, I came to realize that there are two kinds of time. One has sixty minutes to an hour, twenty-four hours to a day, moving along at a brisk clip. And then there is legal time, oozing so sluggishly that movement can scarcely be noted.

  When a business executive says, “I’ll get that letter off to you tomorrow,” he usually means tomorrow, or in a few days, or a week at the most. When a lawyer says, “I’ll get that letter off to you tomorrow,” he usually means in six weeks, next November, or never. Always, in the practice of law, is the unspoken admonition: “What’s the rush?” Shakespeare wrote of “the law’s delay,” everyone is aware of the lethargy of the courts, and even the youngest, brightest, most vigorous attorney, fresh from law school, soon adjusts to tardiness as a way of life. The law, sir, is a glacier. Attempting to hurry it usually proves counterproductive.

  Once I had recognized that central truth, I was able to relax, realize that very few requests involved a crisis, and devote all my energy and wit to mastering the techniques of my new profession. In all modesty, I do not believe I functioned too badly. At least, my salary rose to $12,500 at the end of my first year as Chief Investigator, and to $15,000 at the completion of my second. Surely this was proof that TORT was well satisfied with my performance. The increase enabled me to move from the YMCA into my own apartment, replenish my wardrobe, and invite Miss Yetta Apatoff to a dinner that included a small bottle of French wine. She did not, however, invite me onto her lap in return.

  Not everything was cotton candy. I made mistakes, of course. Not mist
akes, perhaps, so much as failures to foresee a possible course of events. For instance, I was assigned to pick up a supposedly friendly witness in a personal liability case and insure his presence in the courtroom at the required time. When I showed up at his Bronx apartment, he simply refused to accompany me.

  He was a loutish, overbearing individual, wearing a stained undershirt and chomping a soggy cigar.

  “But you’ve got to come,” I said.

  “Got to?” he said, snorting. “I got to do nuttin.”

  “But you promised,” I pleaded desperately.

  “I changed my mind,” he said casually.

  “I insist you come with me,” I said. I’m afraid my voice became slightly shrill.

  “You insist?” he said. He laughed heartily. “What are you going to do—drag me down there, you little shit?”

  I had to report my failure to the TORT attorney handling the case. Fortunately, he accepted my inefficiency philosophically, the witness’s testimony was not crucial, a subpoena was not warranted, and he soon forgot the incident. But I did not; it rankled.

  The next time I did my homework and learned all I could about the potential witness, even to the extent of following him for a few days and making notes of his activities.

  As I anticipated, he also said he had changed his mind and refused to testify.

  “Please change it back,” I said. “I don’t wish to inform your wife where you spent three hours yesterday afternoon.”

  He put on his coat.

  He, too, said, “You little shit!”

  So I learned to cope with those rare instances in which lack of physical bulk made my job more difficult. I was not a licensed private investigator, of course, and I had no desire to attempt to obtain a permit to carry a firearm. I felt I could handle all the demands of my job without resorting to violence.

  But generally, those first two years as Chief Investigator of Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum went swimmingly. I learned the truth of many of those things Roscoe Dollworth had shouted at me just before his retirement. People did lie, frequently for no reason other than they felt the truth was valuable and should not be revealed to a stranger without recompense. People did try to con me, and I soon learned to recognize the signs: a frank, open, unblinking stare and a glib, too-rapid way of speaking.