The Ditto List

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “Great. Volume’s at an all-time high and so is the Dow. Nowhere to go but up, if interest rates stay down. You’re in early.”

  “Out late. I need a favor.”

  “Testimony?”

  “Research.”

  “We’re the best in the business. What have you got? Hot tip, I suppose.”

  “Two companies. Clifford Microdata and East Jersey Instruments. Ever hear of them?”

  “Nope. Not big board. Are they public?”

  “I think so. Or at least they were. Over-the-counter.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Just what has happened to them since 1965. In other words, how much an investment of a hundred shares in each of them in that year would be worth today.”

  “Hmm. May take a while.”

  “How long?”

  “Three, four hours.”

  “No problem. Give me a call.”

  “Will do. Tape’s kicking in so I got to run. Let’s play golf.”

  “I get three a side.”

  D.T. hung up on the broker’s curse of protest and went over to the couch and stretched out, masking his eyes with his arm. Should he try to persuade Esther Preston to file suit after all? What if the stock were worth a fortune? He’d told her, what, a 25 percent contingency? He could use 25 percent of almost anything. The problem was her safety. But surely she could be protected. Rita Holloway. Toledo. The cops, if necessary. And hell, it was probably coincidental anyway. A kid had moved the ramp as a prank. The glass and oil were merely spills, the walker defective. Even Vivaldi and Doris Day movies seem ominous at three a.m. Maybe he should go ahead and sue.

  The next thing he knew Bobby E. Lee was shaking his shoulder. “You have to be in court in half an hour,” he said. “I thought I’d better wake you.”

  “Right, right.”

  “The Stone transcript came in.”

  “Send it to Mrs. Stone by messenger, with a note for her to read it right away.”

  D.T. stumbled to his feet and went into the bathroom and cleaned himself up as best he could, then, smelling of Scope and Noxzema, he donned the shirt and tie and coat he kept at the office for such contingencies and went out to Bobby E. Lee’s desk. “What have I got?”

  “Jensen. Motion to compel further answers to interrogatories and production of documents.”

  “Where’s the file?”

  “Here.”

  “Magistrate?”

  “Yes.”

  “See you.”

  D.T. headed toward the door and then turned back. “Sorry about last night.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I had to know.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe I won’t have to do anything with it.”

  “Maybe so.”

  D.T. went to court to waste his time and his client’s money, playing the games that judges let lawyers play despite a thousand reasons not to. When he was finished he drove to the hospital. The nurse on the orthopedic ward asked if he was a relative of Mrs. Preston. He told her he was better than her relative, he was her lawyer. The nurse sniffed and frowned and consulted her chart. “She has suffered a concussion and many contusions,” she said stiffly. “She still has much discomfort.”

  “You mean pain.”

  “I mean what I say, young man.”

  “I’ll only be a minute.”

  The nurse scratched her cheek. She seemed to have a beard. “I see Rita Holloway has listed you as an authorized visitor.”

  “Do you know Miss Holloway?”

  “She was formerly on staff.” From her look she and Rita Holloway were engaged in a blood feud.

  “Which room?” D.T. asked.

  “Four-nineteen.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  He took a right, then a left, and pushed open a heavy numbered door. The first bed was entirely shrouded by an orange curtain that hung like a slice of the sun from a circular track in the ceiling. He peeked beyond the curtain and saw Esther Preston in the second bed.

  He had expected a cast or traction or some other by-product of trauma, but she was unencumbered, asleep, propped up by the tilted end of the bed. Her hospital gown was imprinted with little pink flowers, her flesh was as thin and substanceless as tissue. When he approached her bed she opened her eyes.

  “Mr. Jones. How nice.”

  “How are you, Mrs. Preston?”

  “I’ve been better, I must admit.”

  “I imagine.”

  “But they tell me I was quite fortunate, it could have been much worse. But then that can be said of anything, can’t it?”

  “Have you talked to Miss Holloway?”

  “Briefly. She was here just after I got out of X ray.”

  “Did she say anything about how you came to fall?”

  “I know how I fell, Mr. Jones. I was careless.”

  “It may be more than that, Mrs. Preston.”

  She frowned, and grimaced from what he hoped was a source of pain other than himself. “How do you mean?”

  “Have you heard from your husband lately, by any chance?”

  She raised her brows. “Oddly enough, I have. What makes you ask?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me to leave him alone, was, I believe, the way he put it. It was more a directive than a request.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I had left him alone for fifteen years and I would be happy to continue doing so. But what does this have to do with my falling in the bathroom?”

  “I think your husband may have left you some reminders, Mrs. Preston.”

  “What sort of reminders?”

  He told her what he and Rita Holloway had found, and what they suspected. “Are you certain of this?” she asked when he had finished.

  “Not completely, no. It could all be coincidental.”

  “Is there a way to prove whether or not Nat did it?”

  “I doubt it. Certainly not without calling in the police.”

  “I see.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. Her thin chest rose and fell beneath the bedclothes. Somewhere down the hall an operatic laugh rang out, then ceased abruptly. D.T. wondered if there was anyone in the next bed, and what they had that needed to be hidden. “Mr. Jones?” Her voice was faint.

  “What?”

  “What does the D.T. stand for? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Dog Tired,” he said.

  She sighed and smiled.

  “I don’t think you ought to stay alone for a while, Mrs. Preston. After you leave here, I mean.”

  She opened her eyes. “You think he’ll keep on trying to frighten me?”

  “He may. It’ll take time to get word to him that we’re not going to file any kind of suit.”

  “But I never intended to sue him.”

  “I know. This whole thing is my fault. I did some investigating and in the process word got to him that I was checking him out. He didn’t like it, apparently.”

  “What on earth do you think he’s afraid of?” she asked, her voice high in wonderment. “How could I possibly be a danger to him?”

  “I wish I knew,” D.T. said truthfully. “The only thing I can think of is a malpractice case that somehow stayed hidden all these years.”

  “But how is that possible?”

  “Well, if the victim doesn’t realize he or she has a claim, then the statute of limitations doesn’t begin to run. So if your husband screwed up, and someone eventually died or was badly injured, and there was no reasonable way for that person to know at the time that it was your husband’s fault, he could be sued today even though it’s years after he saw the patient. Is there anything at all you can think of like that? A patient who was misdiagnosed? A problem delivery he messed up? A miscarriage caused by something he prescribed? Anything?”

  “No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “How about drugs? Was he a user? Or maybe he sold uppers to the kids on the blo
ck?”

  “I’m sure not.”

  “Was he an abortionist? It was illegal in those days, I think.”

  “No. Not that I know of. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing at all like that. Of course, I wasn’t at his office. I suppose all kinds of things could have gone on without my knowledge.”

  “Well, I know you must be tired. Take care of yourself, Mrs. Preston. If you need anything, just call. And don’t worry. I’ll calm your husband’s nerves and you won’t have any more trouble with him. And Miss Holloway and Toledo will stay with you for a while, just to make sure.”

  Her lips grew taut. “I had some other plan in mind, Mr. Jones.”

  “What?”

  Her expression was as uncommon as a mask. “I think we ought to sue the sucker. Can we?” Her lips could have cut wood.

  D.T. paused to think and wiped his brow. His face grew warm from his quick desire to abet her folly. “We can sue anybody for anything,” he said.

  “Can we win?”

  He thought about the stocks and decided not to mention them just yet. “I doubt it. A small amount, if anything.”

  “Will you do it anyway?”

  “Are you sure you want me to?”

  “I am.”

  “What about the danger?”

  She smiled happily. “One advantage of the afflicted is that we can feign a rather flashy courage. Will you do it, Mr. Jones? Please?”

  He sighed, suddenly disliking both of them for what she made him do. “I’ll file the complaint, and I’ll try the case if it gets that far. But that’s it. I can’t afford to do much more than that with it. Discovery costs money.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Let’s do this. I’ll go back to the office and draft the complaint. You think it over. I’ll send my secretary out here with the original for you to sign. If you change your mind you tell him so and that’ll be it. No problem. And in fact that’s what I strongly advise you to do, Mrs. Preston. Forget it.”

  “Oh, I would have, Mr. Jones. If he hadn’t done this.” She gestured at her surroundings. “He’s made me dependent again, and afraid the way I used to be during the days when I first learned I had sclerosis. I can’t forgive him for that.”

  “Well, you think it over,” D.T. repeated. “By the way, Dr. Haskell says hello.”

  “Goodness, I haven’t seen him in years. How is he?”

  “Emaciated.”

  She laughed. “He would be. Why were you meeting with him?”

  “To talk about your husband.”

  “Oh? What did he say?”

  “That he was a complete and total bastard.”

  “Yes. I suppose that just about covers it.” Esther Preston giggled.

  “I only wish there was a law against it,” D.T. said, then said goodbye.

  As he left the hospital and walked toward the parking lot he heard his name called. Rita Holloway was trotting toward him, carrying a small handbag in one hand. “Did you see her?” she asked breathlessly. “I brought her things.”

  D.T. nodded. “Thanks for leaving my name.”

  “How is she?”

  “Fine. She wants to sue the bastard.”

  “You must be joking. Did you tell her what he did?”

  “Yep. That’s what made her mad enough to do it.”

  “But what if he tries to scare her again? Or worse?”

  “You’re going to have to stop him.”

  “Me?”

  “I don’t think he’d try anything with another person around the house. And there are ways to let you know if someone has been inside while you’re gone. So don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

  Rita Holloway shook her head. “My God. I can’t believe she wants to go ahead.”

  “Sure you can.”

  She looked at him. “I guess I can at that,” she said, then started to move around him toward the hospital.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “Have you had breakfast?”

  She raised a brow and cocked her head. “No. I haven’t.”

  “Why don’t you drop off Mrs. Preston’s things, then let me buy you a pancake or something.”

  Rita Holloway frowned, eyed him oddly, then scratched her nose. “I have to get out of these clothes. I reek.”

  “I’ll meet you at your place. You can change, then we’ll hit a little bistro I frequent upon occasion.”

  “Not the Walrus, I hope.”

  He laughed. “This one washes their glasses and everything. So how about it? French toast with sourdough? Belgian waffle with blueberry compote? Buckwheats with real maple syrup? Come on.”

  She hesitated long enough to make him optimistic. Her lips parted in a half-smile. “Why don’t we do this? I only live three blocks from here. You come over, and I’ll bathe and change, and then I’ll make you an omelette that will curl your toes.”

  “Jack cheese?”

  “Sure.”

  “Onions?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Tomato sauce?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re on.”

  D.T. went to his car and waited while Rita Holloway took Mrs. Preston’s bag into the hospital. She reappeared a few minutes later, waved at him, climbed into a little red Datsun, and drove out of the hospital lot. D.T. followed closely, wondering what he was up to.

  Three minutes later Rita Holloway parked in front of a handsome four-plex with a dark stone front that hinted of fortresses and castles. She got out of the car and waited for him to join her. When he was by her side she unlocked the door to the building and went inside and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He followed, admiring the stretch of her uniform across her rump, resisting an urge to swat her. When they reached the second floor she unlocked the door to Apartment Three and stepped aside for him to enter.

  He had taken two steps when a thunder of footsteps made him turn. A beast was hurtling toward them, half-husky and half-lion from the look of him; half-crazed as well.

  “Toledo. Hi, Toledo. Hi, hi, hi, Toledo. Yes. You’re a good dog. Yes, you are. Want some food? Do you? Do you want your breakfast?” Rita Holloway stopped cooing and turned to D.T. “Let me feed him. I’ll only be a minute.”

  She disappeared behind a louvered door and left him in her living room. Its atmosphere was heavy, almost masculine, with dark blue walls and thick stuffed furniture and stalagmites of books and magazines rising off the floor. The couch and loveseat and club chair were paired with a floor lamp, coffee table, and pouf. The TV and stereo were new. The posters were of art exhibits and modern plays. He was comfortable before he thought to sit down.

  “Coffee?” she asked as she came back in the room.

  “Please.”

  “I’ll get it started, then change, then get after those omelettes. Make yourself at home. I’ll only be a second.”

  She went through the louvered door again, ran water, rattled cans and cookware, ground coffee beans in a machine that brought to mind his dentist. He sat in the club chair, cast about for something to read, settled for Cosmopolitan.

  “The newspaper’s probably down in my box,” she called from behind the door. “If you’re interested.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  He fetched the paper and returned to his chair. From the end of the hall down which Toledo had charged came the high sigh of a shower. He exchanged Cosmo for the Tribune, read an article about Nicaragua, then one about Beirut, then one about the spread of AIDS. He thought of Bobby E. Lee, and worried.

  Something in the kitchen whistled. He went through the narrow door and took the kettle off the burner and poured some water into the filter atop the Chemex, onto the fresh-ground beans. The kitchen was so neat it was unnerving. He grabbed a slice of bread from the loaf on the counter and went back to the living room, then wandered down the hall, munching Roman Meal.

  The door at the far end was half-open. D.T. pushed it all the way. Toledo trotted out, growling. He gave the dog the remaining crust of bread. After
drooling on his hand, Toledo trotted meekly toward the kitchen in search of a second slice. He peeked, saw the bedroom was empty and went inside. The only place to sit besides the bed was the chair beside the dressing table.

  The room smelled of talc and roses. The bed was brass, with a flowered quilt and gigantic pillows whose covers featured the silhouettes of bunnies. The blinds were drawn, the morning light made lavender by its passage through the curtains.

  As he sniffed something in a crystal cruet, Rita Holloway walked into the room, head bowed, eyes shut, fixing a towel around her hair. The rest of her was naked. After she tucked away an edge she straightened up and saw him. Her hands dropped from her head to her hips.

  “Well.”

  “Well, well.”

  “Do you always spy on unsuspecting women, Mr. Jones?”

  “Only when I get the chance. And only when they’re naked and owe me favors.”

  “I see. And is this where I’m supposed to scream and carry on and make a mad dash for the closet?”

  He shook his head. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me if you want to make what is known these days as love. With me. Right now.”

  “Before breakfast?” Her eyebrows made twin carets.

  “Since we haven’t slept yet, let’s look at it as after dinner.”

  Her smart look faded. “I’m going with someone.”

  “So am I.”

  “I think it should make a difference.”

  “So do I.”

  She frowned, then crossed her arms across her breasts. “May I take a minute to see if it does?”

  “Be my guest. I’ll just do my nails.”

  He turned his back to her, avoided his reflection in her mirror, grasped an emery board, and began to sand his fingertips. The raspy sound masked what he thought might be her laugh. His mind contained a triptych: her tight brown body, plus Barbara, plus Michele.

  The mirror was angled so he couldn’t see what she was doing. The sounds she made were ambiguous. He finished one hand and began the other.

  “Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes?” He started to pivot toward her.

  “Don’t turn around. Are you in the market for a meaningful relationship or a one-night stand? Or morning, as it were. And please be honest.”

  “The latter, I guess. I’ve found it best not to go looking for relationships, that they usually hunt you down themselves.”