PLUMMET: A Novel

by MICHAEL ZAROCOSTAS

  In another article, a reporter interviewed Carlos at an obscure luncheon in Queens for the "United Defense of Women," raising money to stop "FGM" of girls in Africa.

  "Female Genital Mutilation," Micah read out loud. "Oh my God."

  He read every word of the article, more determined than ever to vindicate Carlos in his defamation lawsuit.

  He thought of another way to search for articles about the alleged assaults. From the print-out of the article about the construction of One Love For All, he found the contact info for the shelter, an address on 14th Street. He typed the street address into the search engine and got five new results. The last link claimed to be a redacted copy of a police report, posted on an exposé site that looked like a cheap rip-off of theSmokingGun.com.

  Micah felt his palms become slippery as he clicked on the link, scanning for the details in the police report that listed a 14th Street shelter as the "scene" of a sexual assault complaint. Most of the typed report was either illegible or blacked-out.He scrolled down and read a "follow-up report" from the investigating detective. There was some vague handwriting.

  A.D.A. met with C#1; C#1's past history of filing suits for slip and fall cases. Used same lawyer every case. A.D.A. concerned with poss. extortion scenario.Request investgn remain OPEN pending credib. evidence or poly exam. LC, sv.

  12 (10 months ago)

  * * *

  October rain spattered against the Firm's cafeteria windows and made Raphael feel drowsy. One of his cases had just settled, and he was thinking about slipping out of the office early and taking a Friday afternoon nap before the client dinner he'd just been invited to. He and Doug Dombrowski were eating lunch together, and Dombrowski was talking his ear off.

  "I must've gotten twenty headhunter calls this week," Doug said. "I'm telling you, the baller money is in investment banking. Staying at a law firm like this is for chumps. No offense, Raphael. I know how bad you want to be an S & A partner."

  Raphael let it go, too jaded to argue. He sat in the plastic booth with Dombrowski, eating gourmet buffalo burgers and staring at the cliques of lawyers chattering at café tables beneath ceiling banners in the Firm's colors, blue and gold. It reminded Raphael of high school in Westchester. Every lawyer at S & A sat in segregated groups. There was the tight-ass White Collar table full of right-wing politicos who really wanted to be federal prosecutors. The Mergers & Acquisitions partners in their white French cuff shirts and underlings in suspenders pretending to be Bud Fox from Wall Street. The temporary contract attorneys from Products Liability who were like the Firm's band geeks. The Intellectual Property group who discussed art house films and technology espionage. Every department was represented except General Litigation. The Gen Lit partners were reclusive hermits, priding themselves on taking lunch at their desks, keeping up their reputations as the highest billers at S & A. They'd dash in line at the cafeteria check-out, then take a plastic container and fork back to their office.

  Like Micah Grayson was doing now.

  Raphael watched the kid in line at the cash register, legal pad under his arm, paying for a burger. Raphael could tell Micah had been working around the clock. He had the sunken, lifeless eyes of an S & A Stormtrooper.

  "Mikey!" Raphael waved him over.

  A smile appeared on the kid's sallow face. Micah walked over with a to-go bag in hand, glanced at Dombrowski, said, "How you all doing?"

  "Good. Have a seat, dude. Join us."

  "I really can't. I have to get back upstairs and finish up a document review."

  "Dude, take a five minute break. You look like shizz-nit."

  "Thanks."

  Raphael scooted over on his side of the booth, patted the seat. Micah reluctantly sat down across from Dombrowski who nodded a greeting.

  "So who's the doc review for?" Raphael asked.

  "Stu Greenbaum, but I report to Hannah."

  "Is Hannah taking credit for everything you do yet?"

  "I don't know why you say that. She's pretty nice."

  "Uh-huh. So what do you think of your partner mentor?"

  Micah mumbled, "Stu? He's all right."

  "Yeah right." Raphael whispered, "This hot little Ukrainian paralegal told me she saw him at a Russian beauty salon getting his eyebrows waxed and his hair dyed blond. Made me think Stu was a homo until I heard the rumor about him and Gabe's wife."

  "What the heck are you talking about?"

  Raphael looked around. "I heard Stu went to Binghamton with her. They dated before she married Gabe. A little hide-the-salami still going on maybe."

  "For someone working on a defamation case," Micah said, "you got about as much sense as a Siamese in heat."

  "Relax, everyone here has heard the same thing."

  "Yup." Dombrowski nodded.

  "So what are you doing for Stu, Mikey? Is it the Von Grunwald case? Probably doing a shit load of document review, right?"

  "How'd you know?"

  Raphael sat erect on the bench, chest out, and mustered up a guttural accent, "I have heard rumors about zat company. Vhere are your papers, Herr Doktor Greenbaum? Und Frauline Smitt!"

  Dombrowski snickered.

  "I'm too tired to even ask," Micah said, sounding irritated. He chewed on his burger. "I've been in a case room going through a hundred boxes for a week now. And I just got a new case with Max Goldberg. What's he like to work for?"

  "Chewbacca? He's the nicest partner in Gen Lit. You got lucky, Mikey."

  "Chewbacca." Micah smiled. "I can't be that lucky. I have to finish that document review today before my girlfriend flies in tonight. We've got show tickets for The Lion King."

  "Jesus," Raphael said, "I'd shoot myself."

  Dombrowski crushed a Coke can in his fist. "Is this a girl back home?"

  "Yup." Micah bit into his burger, didn't look up at Dombrowski.

  Dombrowski looked at Raphael, gave a wink. "Is she a kissin' cousin?"

  Micah put his hamburger down, wiped his hands on a napkin. "Dombrowski, you ever had a can of whup-ass?"

  Dombrowski grinned. "Can't say that I have."

  "Well, keep running your mouth and I'll open up a six-pack for you."

  "Mea culpa. I thought you were joking around about a girlfriend. The long-distance thing never lasts in New York. Especially if you work here."

  Raphael saw Micah's face contort, and he put his arm around the kid's rigid shoulders. "Mikey, don't listen to him. The douche bag was named after Doug. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Gabe was very impressed with the Mavros complaint. Your research was kick-ass."

  Micah loosened up, turned to Raphael. "He said something?"

  "Sounds like Gen Lit shop talk. I'm out, guys." Dombrowski left his trash on the table, walked away.

  Raphael moved across the table to face Micah. "Gabe was psyched, dude. Said we did a bang-up job. He forwarded a draft to Carlos Mavros, and get this." Raphael leaned in. "Carlos invited Vader and me to dinner tonight on his brother's yacht! Can you believe that shit?"

  Micah looked confused. "How come I wasn't invited?"

  "Dude, you're the junior associate. You gotta pay your dues. Come on, Mikey, you couldn't go anyway. Your girl's coming in tonight, remember?"

  "Yeah, guess that's right. If I ever get out of that case room."

  "Hannah's making you stay on a Friday until you finish?"

  Micah nodded. "It's not her. She went to bat for me, but she said Stu wants it done."

  Raphael sighed. "Hey, Mikey, one of my cases just settled so I've got some free time. What do you say I help you knock out the rest of those boxes so you can see your girl tonight?"

  "Are you jerking my chain again? It's at least another twelve boxes."

  "We'll power skim and be done in three hours max. Besides, Princess Lay-ya will be pissed when she sees I billed time to one of her and C3-P0's cases."

  "You know what, Raph," Micah said, smiling. "Beneath that rough, hairy guido exterior, you just might have a heart after all."

  "Dude, wa
tch it. I got a reputation to protect here."

  $ $ $

  Raphael never realized that he was queasy until he got up from the dinner table to use the bathroom. His legs were rubbery, his stomach gurgling from three glasses of red wine and the ebb and flow of the current. The yacht had started at a dock near Chelsea Piers before touring the Hudson River under a chilly black sky. The crew had brought out canopies and intricate heat lamps hovering over the dining table on the main deck. The sleek ninety-foot Inevitable was cutting a fluid wake through the Hudson's dark ripples as he excused himself from the table.

  A bald muscular bodyguard led Raphael below deck to a bathroom with black glass tiles, gold fixtures, and an automated Japanese toilet that opened when he stood in front of it and turned on exit music and an air purifier after he pissed. Raphael took a picture with his cell phone so he could post it later and brag on Facebook. "Just pissed in a billionaire's toilet." While the toilet flushed and cleaned itself, Raphael splashed water on his face, squinted at the mirror. "Tighten up your shit," he said to his reflection, "you're hanging with the Dark Lords." He could've used a nap earlier instead of helping Micah review documents. He looked at the sink, thought about jolting himself awake. The quartz counter was crowded with miniature bottles of cologne, lotion, and breath spray. He pocketed a couple of the colognes and the breath spray, making room on the sink. He tapped out a small bump of Bolivian Marching Powder on the counter, sucked it through his nose, and quickly felt the surge of blood ringing in his ears.

  By the time he got back to the table, a team of small men in white jackets were whispering in Greek and laying out a lavish assortment of hors d'oeuvres. He sat down at one end of the table already feeling more alert and less nauseous. He looked down at his plate. There was a tomato and cucumber salad with peppers and olives, grilled octopus, eggplant salad, a white dip that stunk of garlic, and small triangles of pita bread. Raphael pushed the plate away, but found his glass magically full again, so he sipped more wine.

  At the other end of the spread, Gabe Weiss and Nick Mavros were huddled close together, chuckling and talking. Nine Zero Nick was dark-complexioned with a smiling round face and wide-set green eyes. He sat back confidently, leg crossed over a knee, cashmere sweater resting on his shoulders. Raphael wanted to talk and take more pictures with his cell phone, but Gabe had told Raphael before dinner that the Mavros brothers wanted to meet them privately face-to-face, to be social with their new lawyers. Under no circumstances was Raphael to discuss anything, including the defamation case, unless they asked him something.

  "You're a potted plant," Gabe had said.

  Raphael turned his attention to Gabe's wife, a few feet away next to the ship's railing. Rachel Weiss was wearing a shiny black cocktail dress, swishing a glass in a slow circle, wine rolling to the rim. Carlos Mavros held her elbow while he told her a joke and talked too much with his hands. Carlos looked like his older brother, but was about as perfect as a soap opera actor. He had the same wide-set green eyes, but they were brilliant in their sparkle. And where Nick had crooked teeth, Carlos' were as smooth and white as milk.

  Raphael muttered "bastard" at Carlos' looks, watching as Rachel Weiss smiled and giggled at everything Carlos said.

  Nick clapped his hands, and a duo of servants brought a magnum of champagne to the table. One gracefully set down crystal flutes while the other poured.

  "Carlos, bring the lady over and let's sit down and eat," Nick said loudly, his accent barely noticeable. "We'll say a toast and a prayer, ah?"

  Carlos touched Mrs. Weiss's lower back, guided her to her seat.

  "To our lawyers," Nick said with a sweep of his hand. "They are like nuclear weapons. No one likes them, but everyone must have them!"

  Raphael laughed and watched as Gabe lifted his flute, clinked it with the Mavros brothers' glasses, but didn't take a drink.

  Raphael lifted his own glass, took a mouthful of sugary bubbles.

  "A short prayer, if no one minds?" Carlos said. His English was completely Americanized.

  Gabe and his wife looked at each other and nodded.

  "Bless this food, Creator," Carlos said, "and thank you for your bounty and for the love and peace you've bestowed on us with our wonderful new friends this evening. Amen."

  Nick pointed at one of the servants, and Greek guitar music started piping in from the canopy overhead.

  "It's bouzouki," Nick said, nudging Gabe. "You like it?"

  Gabe nodded, but Raphael could tell his boss wasn't impressed.

  While they ate appetizers, Rachel said to Nick, "So Carlos promised to give me a tour of your new boat. It's absolutely beautiful. I wish Gabriel would get one for me."

  Gabe sat up in his black pin-stripe suit, thumbed at Nick, "If he lets me defend some class actions for him, I'll buy you two, honey."

  "You like my boat? I bought it from a Kuwaiti prince. It was a honeymoon gift for his fourth wife. Filthy Arabs and their wives. One is enough misery for a lifetime, don't you think?"

  "Charming," Rachel said, shooting a look at Gabe. "I can't understand why you're still a bachelor, Nick."

  "The boat is charming, yes, but you know why I bought it? Because the Arab made me laugh. He said to me, 'You buy this, and you will have a magic Jacuzzi in the master bedroom. I said, 'Magic? How do you mean, magic?' He gives me a big smile and says, 'Because two people go in the Jacuzzi. . . but three come out.'"

  Everyone laughed. A waiter came out, whispered in Nick's ear, and Nick announced, "We have our choice of fresh loup de mer overnighted from Greece, roasted duck leg, or braised leg of lamb. The lady first. Which one would you like, my dear?"

  She sat for a while, finger in her mouth trying to decide.

  "You see?" Nick nudged Gabe. "This is why there are no women at the top of my companies. They make decisions like they buy shoes."

  Gabe nodded, and Raphael felt uncomfortable as Rachel's eyes stabbed at Nick and then her husband.

  She took a sip of wine and said, "I understand that in Greece all the men live with their mothers until they're married because they don't know how to cook or clean their own underwear. So it surprises me that Greek women don't run that entire little country. Maybe if they did, it wouldn't be going down the toilet."

  Nick grinned at Gabe.

  Gabe smiled uncomfortably, lifted up his hands as if his wife were an incorrigible child.

  "Your wife has strong opinions, and what she says is true." Nick pulled his napkin from his lap, dabbed at the wolfish grin on his mouth. "But for some reason the Greek men make the decisions and they make the money while the mothers and the wives make the food and the babies. It's not so different from America."

  "Except we've actually advanced to the twenty-first century. We have female CEOs and politicians, and we may even have a woman president soon."

  "And that's why China and the Arabs own this country-"

  Carlos interrupted, "You have to excuse Niko. He grew up in a shipyard with my father and learned his English from sailors and fishermen. Some things get lost in translation. I think what he means is that women are more reflective and nurturing than men."

  "At least one of us is charming," Rachel said, taking Gabe's champagne flute and drinking half the glass in one tilt.

  Raphael noticed that as she grew irritated, her chest flushed above her black bodice. He caught himself staring at her cleavage and looked away. In the awkward lull, he heard the bouzouki music and the lapping of river water against the hull. He listened as Gabe changed the subject to some litigation he had against a Kuwaiti bank. Still, Raphael couldn't help watching Rachel Weiss. She finished another glass of champagne in one swallow and began twirling her hair, eyes gleaming, laughing at whatever Carlos said. She kept mentioning that she needed a sponsor for her art shows and that Carlos would be a perfect donor.

  They had Ouzo, sweet wine, and brandy with baklava for dessert, and by ten o'clock, conversation slurred, the boat swayed, and the crisp air felt good on Raphael's face
. He followed Rachel's gaze and looked up at the sky. Stars trembled like silver bits of jelly. Maybe it was the drinking or her anger or the extravagant night, but Rachel Weiss looked like a goddess to Raphael. If he could go home with her, it would be his wet dream come to life.

  He watched her wander back to the ship's rail and thought of talking to her. But Carlos Mavros followed her, and they stood close, looking down at the black river.

  Raphael sighed and drank his third brandy.

  At the table, Nick Mavros puffed a cigarette, said to Gabe, "Your wife likes wine."

  "Tell me something I don't know. She likes art, too. She's actually a talented artist. Does these charity art shows with her artsy fartsy friends, too. They're always looking for corporate sponsors. I'm sure one of your companies could use the tax deduction."

  "Maybe, but you better keep an eye open tonight. My brother is a good kamaki. In Greek, that's the spear we throw to catch fish." Nick smiled through crooked teeth and mimed throwing a spear. "Carlos was always the pretty one. Even when he was little, the girls would chase him everywhere."

  Raphael stole a glimpse of Gabe's face, hard and skeletal in the watery moonlight. Gabe looked over at his wife dangling her shoe from a perfectly-manicured foot.

  Nick said loudly to her, "Your husband says you like art. Tell me the name of a great woman painter? I can't think of any."

  She adjusted a strap on her slingback shoe, her long smooth leg catching everyone's eye. She gracefully turned from the rail and said, "Magdalena Carmen Frida Kahlo y Calderón."

  Nick said something in Greek to Carlos.

  "She said Frida Kahlo," Carlos answered. He rested an elbow on the rail and put his other arm around Rachel's shoulder.