PLUMMET: A Novel

by MICHAEL ZAROCOSTAS

  "Yeah, we wouldn't want that. Especially after all that research you did last night."

  "What did you just say?"

  "You heard me." He gave her a wry smile, staring a hole through her pasty forehead.

  "Yawr a little out of line, Mike. Better calm your liver."

  "I don't know what that means, but, yes, ma'am." He dropped the stack of Keycite pages and cases on her desk. "There's your research. How many hours did you spend on it? And which search terms did you use?"

  "Listen, don't act like you just won Brown versus Board of Education. You did a little research. Anyone could have done it, anyone could have found that case."

  "You didn't."

  "You can go now," she said, motioning to the door like a baseball ump ejecting a batter.

  He walked out, still smiling at her.

  27 Wednesday

  * * *

  Wednesday afternoon. The biggest day of his life. He'd been waiting for this moment for seven years, three-hundred sixty-three days, three hours, and two minutes. He'd heard a rumor that the Partnership Committee was close to making a decision on new partners. He and Hannah were up in Gen Lit in the New York office, and he'd been physically ill over it all day.

  Raphael stared at his computer screen, trying to get in his billable hours before the accounting deadline, wishing he could fast-forward to the decision by the committee. But he couldn't bear the obsession and anxiety. He wanted to get out of the building and kill some time. He popped up from his desk, leaving the billing program on the screen.

  He passed the secretaries' desks in the hall, waved at Angel.

  "Taking a break," he said. "If anyone calls, just tell them, 'He stepped away from his desk.'" The standard S & A secretarial phrase for, "I have no idea where he is, so don't get mad at me if you can't find him."

  He tore out of the office tower and through Times Square. Office slaves and disoriented tourists floated around the block, looking for a quick smoke, an early lunch, a photo in front of landmarks.

  When he got to Bryant Park, there was already a swarm of wanna-be hipsters and fashionistas circling a summer runway show. They were shiny in the intense sunlight, squinting, unbuttoning the collars of shirts and blouses, scoping for models, looking for new fashion lines. No one could get near the line of ropes encircling the runway tent. Security guards periodically allowed a photographer or a flamboyantly gay man inside.

  With the electricity of people and buzz, Raphael thought about the Bryant Park Summer Film Festival. Every Monday at dusk, they'd show a classic movie in the middle of the coveted patch of grass in Midtown. People would come with picnics and recline on blankets under the stars. He couldn't remember which summer it was, how long ago. It felt like yesterday and years ago. He and Hannah Smythe were junior associates when they had wedged into a space in the park, holding hands on the grass to watch The Princess Bride, which no one knew was his favorite movie, even more than any of the Star Wars episodes. He never told anyone that he actually knew most of the lines by heart.

  "Mawiage, mawiage is what bwings us togedar today," he said now. "That bwessed awangement . . . that dweam wifin a dweam. And wuv, twue wuv will fowow you fowever."

  He'd never gotten the chance to repeat his favorite line with Hannah. He wondered if she'd seen the movie again since. She'd been a Princess Bride virgin then. He told her that there were two types of people in the world. Those who loved Princess Bride, and those who hadn't seen it yet. And now she was his archrival on the biggest day of his life. He sighed, wading through the crowds from his memory, asking, "What happened to us?"

  He sat on the grass at the edge of the park, far from the fashion show's tent and stayed there for a while, feeling the sun on his bald spot, warm and nostalgic.

  $ $ $

  "Dude, I'm telling you today is the day for me." Raphael said, his fingers pumping his keyboard, billable hours rolling up on his computer. "I heard from my spies."

  "I'm rooting for you, Raph," Micah Grayson said, sitting across from the desk. "So how'd you get that nice tan on your dome, huh? You even burned your neck. You sure you're not from Kentucky?"

  "Funny. I was checking out the models at Bryant Park, dude." Raphael gently touched the pink skin on his bald spot. "Do you realize how much a junior partner makes here?"

  "A lot, I bet." Micah shifted in the seat, leaned forward. "So what do you think I should do?She's taking credit for everything I do. I've been working my ass off every weekend now, and it's starting to really tick me off."

  "What'd I tell you about Princess Lay-ya?" Raphael leaned back from his billable hours for the month, glanced at the kid. "You didn't fucking believe me when you first got here. You were like, 'She's nice, Raphael. I like her, Raphael. Don't be mean, Raphael.' My vagina's itchy, Raphael. Wahhhh."

  "Can I go to Gabe and ask not to work for her anymore?"

  "Not a good idea, Mikey. You'll get a bad rep with all the partners. And if she becomes a partner herself, she'll blacklist you. I'm serious, that chick was born evil."

  "Born evil?" The kid grinned. "You sound like someone from back home. They think you're born evil, that everyone's sinful. No amount of good deeds can save you because there's only one perfect standard of good."

  "Why the hell do they think that?"

  "You know, the Fall from Grace, eating the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge?"

  Raphael turned away from his computer screen, frowned. "Why is knowledge or curiosity evil? Because God told Adam not to eat the fruit and he did? That's bullshit. 'Here, Adam, here's a nice sweet juicy mango, but don't eat it because I said so. I want to keep you down.' I mean, what kind of benevolent god would pull that shit? It's like entrapment, dude."

  "Well, first of all, that story is allegory. Second, I personally don't think God created man to be evil. I'm just telling you what some people think-"

  "I know what your peeps think. I just think man is basically good and corruption is learned." Raphael hit a key, saw the numbers add up. "Check out the grand total of my hours this month. This'll give Princess Lay-ya something to suck on!"

  The kid heaved a sigh, leaned over the desk to look at the computer screen. "Damn, Raph, I thought you were slow this month. You worked three hundred and fifty hours?"

  "Billed. I billed three hundred fifty hours. I didn't necessarily work three-fifty."

  "Wait a minute," Micah said, giving him that innocent, bewildered look Raphael hadn't seen in the kid's face in a long time. "You're not padding, are you?"

  "Oh gimme a fucking break, Mikey. I can't take on any more cases right now, and I absolutely have to bill more than that bitch."

  "What if the partners find out?"

  "Mikey, Mikey, Mikey." Raphael rolled his chair back from his computer. "I thought you were finally catching on here. The partners don't want to find out. In fact, they want me to pad my time. It's more money in their pockets."

  Micah pointed at the billing program. "But that's dishonest, man-"

  "If I don't do it, someone else will. You think Hannah Smythe honestly billed five hundred forty hours in one month?The so-called Firm record? Bullshit. She would have had to work eighteen hours a day for thirty days straight."

  "Maybe she was in a trial."

  "No way. Gen Lit at this Firm? I've been here eight years and never tried a case. We paper people to death until they settle. We're lucky to have a trial at all, besides one that lasts for a month. Dude, she fucking padded."

  "Good Lord. You think everyone pads their time?"

  "No, I don't think they do, I know they do."

  Micah looked at his hands, as if he were counting on his fingers.

  Raphael chuckled. "What's wrong?"

  "I only bill about two hundred hours a month. I thought fifty hours a week was plenty."

  "Not by Sullivan & Adler standards. Why the fuck do you think they keep calling you to take on more cases? You've been here what, a year now, and you haven't figured that out?"

  Angel knocked o
n the door, entered. "Raphie, your Summer Associate lunch is in five minutes. There's two cars outside waiting for youse guys."

  "Nice. Thanks, Angel."

  "You also got that invite to something in Brooklyn at 5:00. Some partner's wife?"

  Raphael hesitated, realizing it was Gabe Weiss's wife who had some charity art show in Williamsburg. "Oh yeah. I wouldn't be caught dead at that thing. Thanks, Angel-ina."

  Angel shook her head, shut the door.

  Micah said, "You were invited to Rachel Weiss's art show, too?"

  "Of course, dude. How'd you know about it?"

  "I guess she invited a lot of people who work for Gabe." Micah had a quizzical look on his pale face. "I was planning on going to it. Just to be polite, you know."

  "Come with me to this summer lunch."

  "You're going now, at 2:30?" Micah cracked half a smile, looking at a wristwatch. "I really shouldn't. I've got a long row to hoe. I should get back to my desk."

  Raphael pushed the kid's buttons. "What are you gonna work so hard for? So Hannah can take all the credit?" He stood, pulled on his suit jacket, winced when the collar brushed his sun burnt neck. "Fuck her, Mikey. Bill your time at lunch. I'm taking the summers to our favorite club."

  "I can't, Raph."

  "I find your lack of faith disturbing," Raphael said. "Hey, by the way, what ever happened with that video you found a couple months ago? You trash it?"

  "Nothing, I guess." The kid looked at him sideways. "I turned it over to Vader, and he didn't say anything about it again."

  "Cool. I don't need that coming back to bite me in the ass." Raphael checked his e-mail to see if the Partnership Committee had made an announcement. He touched the evil-eye charm on his heavyweight gold chain to ward off any bad luck. "No announcement yet."

  28 Thursday night/Friday morning

  * * *

  In the midst of 23rd Street's blurry buzz, Gabe looked at the cop's intense stare. Gabe was still leaning against the Ford's bumper, between the cop and the trunk, sweat pouring down his face. He hated the cop for being law and order and himself for being a man without either.

  The cop smirked and said, "So you're refusing consent to a search of the vehicle?"

  Gabe sponged sweat from his face. "Listen, I like cops. My brother was on the job." No reaction. Gabe looked at the cop's badge, the name patch, "Raclein. Officer Raclein, I'm a lawyer. My Firm represents the City-"

  "Uh-oh, we got a lawyer here." The cop stared at Gabe's Fordham Law t-shirt, spat on the pavement. He aimed the flashlight at the bumper of Sarah's car. "Sir, I'm just doing my job."

  "I'm not some fucking criminal. There's no reason to look, goddamn it."

  The other cop, a fat one, got out of the squad car, circled around behind Gabe. "You wanna call canine, Mitch?"

  "Look, I'm not some idiot civilian," Gabe said. "I don't have to consent to a search." He glanced back at the fat pigeon-toed cop behind him, at chubby hands on a nightstick.

  "Central," the fat cop started to say into his radio.

  "All right, all right." Gabe sighed. He didn't want them searching inside, finding the .38 under the driver's seat. He had to give them something though. He turned, starting for the driver's door.

  "Sir, do not get into the car."

  Gabe ignored the instruction, yanked the car keys out of the ignition, tossing them to the thin cop. "Go ahead, open the trunk. But I want you two greenhorns to think about something if you do. I'm a litigation partner at Sullivan & Adler. We represent the City, the MTA, and even you guys on several matters. In fact, I sat down with your brass last month at the Sergeants Benevolent Association. We got a fat settlement for you in the SBA's pension fund suit against that investment firm in Jersey. I bet your bosses were pretty happy that every cop in the City got a piece of that $40 million settlement. And now you're giving one of the lead attorneys from that case the fucking business." Gabe saw the two cops eyeball each other, backing off. "So go ahead. If you want to harass me, you wanna fuck around, search my car? Be my guest. Then I'll pass your names on to your bosses. I'll tell them how Officers Raclein and O'Hare treated me, and, if you're lucky, you'll be writing meter maid tickets and doing midnight fixers on the Williamsburg Bridge for the rest of your careers."

  The two cops eyed each other again. The fat pigeon-toed one, O'Hare, huffed a laugh to see if Gabe was bluffing. The smaller one pulled off a driving glove, picked out the Ford key on the ring of Sarah's keychain.

  Gabe watched, pretending to be bored, leaning against the car door. He wiped his shiny face with a forearm, glanced down the street. There was a subway entrance close by. He took out his wallet, found the white plastic card with the gold SBA badge and American flag above Ed Mullins's name. Gabe held it out, said, "There you go, O'Hare. That's my SBA card. Take a look while Raclein illegally searches my trunk."

  Officer Raclein nodded at the fat one, pointed the flashlight at Gabe. "Sir, we're sorry to waste your time. You're free to go."

  "Thanks." Gabe held his hand out for the keys."I'm going to forget your names and badge numbers, boys."

  The keys were lobbed back at him, bouncing off his hand and onto the ground. The cruiser screeched away while Gabe picked up the key ring. His hands shaking. The guilty part of him wanted to be arrested, cuffed, beaten to a pulp. Maybe they could have put him out of his misery? What was it called? "Suicide by cop, that's it." But his hardnosed side had won out, intimidating the young patrolmen.

  There was nothing in the trunk anyway. He had already removed the body, but he was worried that there may be traces of blood. He didn't need them sniffing around in there.

  The elderly Asian woman was still on the sidewalk, staring oddly at him. He walked over to her, apologized again, taking out his wallet.

  She shook her head "no," tried to limp away on the leg he'd hit. He caught her hand, shoved his American Express Centurion card into her tendril fingers. She took the black slice of plastic, studying it.

  "You can buy anything you want. Go crazy."

  She looked up at him, bewildered.

  He went back to the Ford Taurus, slumped into the driver's seat, and started laughing at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. "What the fuck are you doing, Gabriel?" He reached under the seat, where the gun's handle jutted out under the floor mat. He tucked it inside his jeans, beneath his Fordham Law t-shirt, and started the car.

  $ $ $

  After a stop at another liquor store, he drove to the apartment building, sitting in the parked Taurus. He'd been there for a while, chugging the fifth. He'd reached the hazy state of numbness where nothing mattered or affected him. He'd tuned the radio to a country station that Sarah would've hated. It was playing Ring of Fire by his favorite singer, Johnny Cash. He turned the volume up, singing along to the end of the song. He turned the radio off, confirmed the Chelsea address on the rolodex card, and slowly exited. His feet dragged sluggishly across the sticky asphalt, the air feeling thick.

  The building was one of those new loft-condo developments, eight stories of glass and steel. But no doorman. Scotch bottle in hand, he leaned against the red metal entrance door and noticed the video intercom. He squinted at a list next to the intercom, of units and names. There wasn't a "Mavros" among them, but there was the unit number from the rolodex card: 8J. Gabe knew the M.O. of these types, putting their homes in the name of a personal assistant so they could keep their privacy. But there was something about the name next to "8J" that bothered him. The name was "Guillerme Texeira/G.T. Servs." He thought about it for a while, knowing there was a connection, but too drunk to focus.

  He fumbled for 8J's buzzer, pressed it four times. He realized that it must be after midnight now, who knows how deep into Friday morning.

  After a few seconds, a familiar voice crackled from the intercom, "Hello?" There was no image on the video screen. Gabe guessed the owner had the option to keep it black.

  "You fucked up," Gabe said, reaching his hand up to block the camera.

&n
bsp; "Excuse me? Who is this? I can't see you, move your hand-"

  "It's your lawyer, you schmuck."

  "Who do you think you are? Do you know what time it is?"

  "No!" Gabe heaved the half-empty scotch bottle in the direction of some trash cans. "You left a video in the files your secretary sent me, you stupid fucks!"

  "You have the wrong address," the intercom said.

  "I watched the video." Gabe pressed his mouth against the intercom, leaned against the door. "You hear me? I watched the goddamn thing. I saw you in it."

  The exterior door buzzed, and Gabe stumbled through the unlocked entrance.

  $ $ $

  The apartment was even nicer than Gabe expected. Fourteen-foot ceilings, expensive modern leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, a rainbow of glass tiles in the kitchen, glossy walnut wood floors. Gabe scanned the artwork on one wall, recognized one of Rachel's abstracts of a geometric band playing fruits as instruments. It was among other oil paintings and religious icons of saints, and a column of large photographs of Nick Mavros. Black and whites of Nick on one of his yachts, Nick ringing the bell at the New York Stock Exchange, Nick at the ground-breaking ceremony of One Love For All.

  He laughed at the shrine.

  The place was clean and dark, but there was something else about it. The noise. It hummed of electricity. Gabe noticed a stainless steel desk on wheels in the corner, loaded with two Mac computers, speakers, two large video monitors, portable disk drives, printers, wires, and surge protectors. And a small video camera on the desk.

  Gabe felt his whole body tingle.

  "Well, what do you want?" Carlos Mavros, in black silk pajamas, crossed his arms. There was real sleep in his dark eyelids and irritation in his crooked mouth. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, prepped for listening.