[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds

by David S. Brody

  He took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and returned to the conference room.

  * * *

  Bruce eyed Pierre warily as he returned. It looked to Bruce like Pierre had spread himself a little—or a lot—too thin. He hoped it wouldn’t interfere with Pierre’s ability to manage the Fenway Place project.

  Bruce handed copies of the partnership documents to Pierre and Howie and showed them where to sign. Felloff had already executed the agreement. They signed, and Bruce was signing next to their names as witness to their signatures when a knock on the door interrupted them. Bruce put down his pen and opened the door. It was Puck.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Arrujo. I was wondering how long you will be using this conference room.” They were the first words Puck had spoken to Bruce in the two weeks since Puck had confronted him over the Gardner Museum theft.

  Bruce smelled a rat—why didn’t Puck simply send his secretary to ask? Puck smiled at Pierre and Howie, obviously waiting to be introduced. Could he be trying to steal my clients? What a cheap old bastard! Bruce laughed to himself, made the introductions. “Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Bertram Puck, Jr., one of the firm’s senior partners. Mr. Puck, this is Pierre Prefontaine, and this is Howard Plansky. I am handling a closing for them—they were the successful bidders at an RTC auction. You may remember that you were kind enough to look over the partnership agreement I prepared for them. We were actually just leaving for the closing right now.”

  “Ah, a very opportunistic time to be investing in real estate. I commend you gentlemen, and wish you luck.”

  Puck bowed politely and left. The old man could actually be a bit engaging when there were clients around. Bruce shook Puck from his thoughts. “All right guys. Let’s grab some lunch, and then go to beautiful downtown Lowell for a closing.”

  * * *

  The closing went without a hitch, and by four o’clock Howie and Pierre were the official owners of a 245-unit condominium complex. Howie let out a whoop, stood up and high-fived Bruce and Pierre. “We did it, boys. Now how about going out for a little celebration? Dinner’s on me.”

  Bruce politely declined. “Thanks for the offer, Howie, but I’ve got to get back to the office. I’m just a working stiff, unlike you real estate moguls.”

  Howie turned to Pierre. “How about you, partner?”

  Pierre knew he had no right to be angry at Howie. But he couldn’t help feeling resentment toward him as a result of the way they had structured the deal. Why couldn’t Howie have agreed to let Pierre take a small percentage of the profits up front? That would have gone a long way toward solving Pierre’s financial problems. “I think I’m going to pass, Howie. I’ve got a few things I need to take care of before the weekend, and I figure I’ll spend all day tomorrow and Friday at the property getting things organized.”

  “Oh. All right.”

  Howie was hurt, and Pierre felt a bit guilty for it. Howie had been accommodating (if not exactly generous) in lending Pierre the twenty grand, and it wasn’t Howie’s fault Pierre was in financial trouble. But it would be best if he skipped the celebration dinner and focused on solving the Charese problem. He smiled at Howie and squeezed his shoulder. “Hey, partner, it’s nothing personal. I’ve just got to deal with some things. Can I take a rain check on that dinner? Maybe after the weekend I’ll feel more like celebrating.”

  PIGEON PIE

  CHAPTER 43

  [June 14, 1990]

  The morning after Pierre and Howie’s closing, Jan walked into Bruce’s office, one hand behind her back. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  Bruce looked up and smiled. Her friendliness had continued, probably because she was unaware of his new status as the firm’s resident art thief. “I bet you do.”

  “Are you a ball fan?”

  “I’ve never heard it worded quite that way, but if you mean baseball, yes I am.” Actually, he had no interest in the game, but he was curious to see what Jan wanted. “Why do you ask?”

  “Mr. Puck wanted to know if you want to use what’s behind my back for Saturday night.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.” He laughed. “But if he’s offering me tickets to the Red Sox game, sounds great.” Actually, it sounds suspicious. Unless it’s the firm’s idea of a severance package.

  “Good guess.” She spun around on one heel and presented a pair of tickets—held between index finger and thumb just above her right buttocks.

  He laughed again. “That’s quite a pair. I just wonder if I’ll find the seat comfortable.”

  Jan turned slowly around, leaned over so both of her breasts dangled at eye level, and dropped the tickets on Bruce’s desk. “Like you died and went to heaven.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. But sometimes heaven has to wait.” He smiled gently. “Now, I’d love the Sox tickets, but what’s the catch?”

  Jan sighed and stood up. “Well, can’t blame a girl for trying. And you’re right about a catch. They’re the firm’s seats—front row right next to the Red Sox dugout, and they’re playing the Yankees—but Mr. Puck says you can only use them if you bring a client. He mentioned that Pierre Prefontaine guy you did a closing for.”

  Bruce nodded. The old man could smell new business. Puck probably saw the size of the Fenway Place purchase, realized Pierre was a promising new client. Bruce thumbed through a stack of memos in his in-box, found the weekly summary of the firm’s new business. Sure enough, Puck had taken credit for generating the Pierre business. Puck would therefore be entitled to retain the lion’s share of the fees paid by Pierre and Howie, for the Fenway Place deal and for any others in the future. Puck was hoping to use the Sox tickets to cement the firm’s relationship with Pierre, to ensure Pierre would still use the firm after Bruce got canned. Way to go Puck—stab me in the back and pick my pocket at the same time.

  “Fine,” he said to Jan. “I’ll call Pierre to see if he’s available. If he’s not, I’ll bring the tickets back to you.”

  “Why don’t you come down and let me know either way?”

  Bruce smiled. “I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  He thought about it for a few minutes. He was inclined to turn down the tickets for the simple reason that Puck wanted him to accept them. But that type of analysis was intellectually flawed. In truth, whatever Puck’s motivations, Bruce found the offer of the tickets to be opportune for him as well. After all, the road to riches ran straight through Pierre’s wallet. His now-empty wallet, ironically.

  He dialed Pierre’s pager number and waited for the return call.

  * * *

  “Front row next to the dugout?” Pierre stared at the phone. “Against the Yankees?” His excitement quickly faded as he remembered he couldn’t even afford to buy Bruce a hot dog and beer. But the seats were too good to pass up, and he was flattered Bruce had thought to invite him. Plus, he knew by then he would be sick of Howie, who wasn’t scheduled to leave until Sunday night. And Carla so disliked Howie and his crass sense of humor that she had made plans to take Valerie (whose fever had finally broken) for a visit to her parents for the weekend.

  Pierre accepted Bruce’s invitation.

  “Great. I’ll meet you at seven-thirty in front of the ticket office, all right?”

  “See you there. And thanks, Bruce.”

  “Yeah, um….” Bruce coughed, then continued. “Don’t mention it.”

  * * *

  [June 16, 1990]

  Bruce grabbed a sailboat early, before the Saturday crowds had a chance to swarm to the sailing club, then came into the office to eat lunch at his desk. He looked at his “To do” list—he had nothing pressing, largely because he hadn’t received a single new assignment since his meeting with Puck almost two weeks earlier. No reason to get him involved in new cases if he was going to be fired soon. But he had fallen behind on his stack of newspapers. He made a point of reading the local papers every day, as well as trying to keep up with the Wall Street Journal on a regular basis. He
pulled out a stack of newspapers and began leafing through them.

  An article itemizing the massive claims currently being paid by Lloyd’s of London caught his eye. He had never figured out whether Puck had any connection to the insurance company, but he knew that many old-money Americans invested in Lloyd’s. Actually, “invested” was the wrong word; rather, the investors, called “names,” pledged their entire net worth to back any losses the company might suffer relating to a specific bundle of insurance policies. In exchange for this pledge, the “names” received a percentage of the premiums paid under that bundle of policies. Historically, the investment had yielded high returns, except in those rare instances when a catastrophic event—such as a shipwreck—would totally wipe out the group of “names” backing that particular policy.

  According to the news article, the current losses at Lloyd’s stemmed not from a single, or even group of, catastrophic events, but from a fundamental miscalculation in the way the company evaluated the risks of insuring pollution claims. Lloyd’s had written policies that covered losses due to such things as asbestos exposure and environmental contamination, never expecting that the claims stemming from these policies would total in the billions of dollars. Now, Lloyd’s was asking the “names” to write six- and even seven-figure checks to cover their share of the losses, which were continuing to mount.

  Could Puck be one of the “names” affected?

  Bruce looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. It was time to head over to Fenway Park to meet Pierre. He locked his office and, as usual, took the long way toward the elevator bank—he wanted as many partners as possible to see him in the office on a Saturday evening. As he passed Puck’s office, he could see light escaping from under the closed door. He stopped and knocked.

  “Yes, yes, just one moment please.” Bruce heard the sound of fumbling. “Now you may enter.”

  Bruce opened the door and stood in the doorway. It surprised him to see Puck in a pair of khakis and a dark tennis shirt—Puck always wore a suit to the office. It somehow made the man less intimidating, almost like seeing Clark Kent when one expected to view Superman. “Hello, Mr. Puck. I just wanted to thank you for the Red Sox tickets.” It was a good excuse to have a conversation with the old man, try to get a sense of when the ax might fall on his law career—not that the old man was particularly easy to read.

  Puck looked quickly at his watch. “Yes, Mr. Arrujo. And aren’t you attending the ball game?”

  “Yes.” He left off the “sir,” not that Puck seemed to notice. “I’m heading over there right now.” Bruce noticed a small duffel bag in the corner and a set of car keys on Puck’s desk. Was Puck going away for the night? Maybe even a love interest? He seemed a little nervous about something.

  “I believe Mr. Prefontaine is joining you?”

  “Yes.”

  Puck nodded slightly, then dismissed Bruce with a wave toward the door. “Be gone, then.”

  * * *

  Charese looked out the window of her condo—in the distance she could see the lights of Fenway Park.

  She closed the shade. She, too, would have to play a little ball tonight if she hoped to pay the $200 she owed for rent. Pierre Prefontaine may have thought of the $200 as grossly inadequate, but to Charese it was $200 she didn’t have and would have to go out and earn every month. She could earn it in one night, but it wasn’t exactly easy work.

  She slipped on fishnet stockings, red heels and a black halter-top and miniskirt, then glanced at the clock. Ten after ten. She looked at herself in the mirror—not bad, but only because she had caked her face in makeup to hide the bags under her eyes and the sallowness of her skin. She was glad summer was here—even her olive-tinted skin could use some sun. Especially because her facial hair had begun growing again. The first thing she would do if the lawsuit settled would be to re-fill her female hormone drug prescription. She might decide later to abandon the sex-change operation, but she wanted to at least wake up every morning and have the option to be a woman that day if she felt like it. A woman, that is, without whiskers.

  She sighed, let her dog out onto the deck for a little fresh air. It was Saturday night, her usual working night. One option was to wait until after midnight when some of the bars closed and hope for some drunk college guy. Or she could try her luck right now and score some older guy looking for a quickie before bedtime—maybe an out-of-town conventioneer leaving the theater, or a businessman taking a detour on his way home from the Red Sox game. Her experience had been that the college boys always wanted intercourse, which made for a rather awkward situation. But at least, if she could talk them into a blow job instead, they were quick. Some of the older guys required fifteen or twenty minutes of constant sucking and licking before coming, and then Charese had to rest her jaw for half an hour before looking for another customer. But they always paid her price, and never hassled her afterwards.

  Either way, the heroin helped. It made the time pass in a warm, drowsy, dream-like way—it was as if she had checked out of her body for the night, but decided to hang around and watch to see what the new occupant would do with it. In the morning, of course, she would have to return to clean up the mess. But it was usually worth it.

  She reached into her medicine cabinet and pulled out an old aspirin bottle. Inside were four or five gray chunks of heroin tar, each about the size of a raisin. Each cost about forty dollars. Charese took one out and placed it on the cut-off bottom of an aluminum soda can. Using a syringe, she added a little water to the aluminum base, heated the base from beneath with a lighter, and stirred the chunk until it had dissolved in the water. She then took a cotton ball and ripped off an aspirin-sized piece and dropped it into the heroin solution. The cotton piece quickly became bloated. Using the syringe, she extracted the liquid heroin from the cotton, which served as a filter as the solution passed through it. After a few seconds, she had sucked the entirety of the solution into the syringe.

  Holding the syringe so as not to spill the heroin, Charese took another cotton ball, dabbed it in alcohol, and rubbed clean the spot on the bend of her arm. She angled the needle so that it was almost parallel to her forearm, and slowly pushed the needle into her vein, careful not to push it all the way through and out the other side. Holding the syringe flat against her forearm so that she wouldn't jostle the needle loose, she depressed the plunger and forced the heroin solution into her vein. She injected about half the dosage, then waited a few minutes to make sure it wasn’t a bad dose before completing the injection. The whole episode took less than ten minutes.

  Almost immediately she could feel the drug coursing through her body like a cup of soup on a cold day, washing away her unhappiness, empowering her to face the world. She had become experienced enough with the drug to get just the right dosage—too large a dose and she would be too high to work effectively, too small a dose and it would wear off before she had completed her night's work. She looked out the window—it was a quiet, warm night. A good night to be outside, and she was feeling giddy, so why not go out and get it over with now? She threw on an old, oversized sun dress and a pair of sandals which she would wear on her walk to and from the Theater District—why should her neighbors see her leaving the building looking like a whore? Besides, she had been arrested twice already, so she wanted to keep a low profile as much as possible. So she wore the sun dress and sandals until it was time to work, then she simply stuffed them into her oversized pocketbook.

  The pocketbook—purple and gloriously gaudy—hung on a doorknob; she grabbed it and looked inside: lipstick, mouthwash, hairbrush, mace, keys. And videotape. She carried the video everywhere—she didn’t trust Roberge enough to leave it in the apartment.

  She rode the elevator to the first floor and left the building, then walked up Clarendon Street toward the Back Bay and cut right on Columbus Avenue. Three more blocks, and she was in the Theater District. The shows were just letting out, so she stepped out of her sun dress, stepped into her heels, and leaned up against a str
eetlight, one leg wrapped snakelike around the light pole. Her legs were her best feature, and the pose had caused frequent traffic tie-ups and an occasional fender bender.

  She kept one eye on the pedestrian traffic and one eye on the creeping line of cars exiting the parking lots. These were not great trolling conditions—too many people and too much congestion. Johns liked anonymity, and they didn’t like to feel trapped—as if any of them would really try to make a run for it, dick flapping up against their thigh, if the cops showed up. Charese relaxed her pose. She would wait fifteen minutes for the crowds to thin. She slipped back into her sun dress and sandals and walked across the street to a convenience store for a cup of coffee and a corn muffin; she hadn’t eaten dinner, and she knew her stomach, if empty, would react badly to the semen.

  Twenty minutes later, the crowds still had not thinned. It was the first dry night after a period of rain, and people seemed content just strolling the streets. Charese decided to walk back toward Arlington Street, where at least the pedestrian traffic would be thinner. She again removed her sun dress and sandals and began to walk, singing a Motown hit aloud, her hips swinging back and forth to the beat.

  A gray Grand Am, which she had seen double-parked in front of the convenience store, pulled out into traffic and followed her. Charese noticed the car immediately, glanced inside. She couldn’t see well, but it was a male driver, and he was alone. So far, so good—she tried to avoid group situations. Maybe he had seen her before her coffee break and had been waiting for her. She smiled seductively and continued her walk, detouring around a traffic island so that the Grand Am could follow her in the one-way traffic pattern. They continued together for one long block and one short one, Charese walking slowly so the traffic-bound car could keep pace. Just past the entrance to Legal Sea Foods, the Grand Am’s left blinker flashed red, and the man turned left on Arlington Street. He drove fifty feet up Arlington Street and swung into a narrow alley running behind a large stone building known as the Castle. The driver turned off his lights and waited.