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 in
vite 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 mistakes, 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.
I also learned not to get personally involved with the people with whom I dealt, while maintaining a polite, sympathetic, low-key manner. I also learned an investigator’s job requires infinite patience, an almost finicky attention to detail, tenacity, and the ability to endure long periods of boredom.
If I had one regret it was that circumstances never arose requiring an original investigation to uncover the truth in a case of some importance. I felt I had proved my ability to handle routine assignments that were, for the most part, matters requiring only a few phone calls, correspondence, or simple inquiries that needed no particular deductive talent. Now I craved more daring challenges.
My chance to prove my mettle came in February of my seventh year at TORT.
2
EACH MORNING I ARRIVED at my office at about 8:30 A. M., carrying a container of black coffee and a buttered, toasted bagel. I liked to arrive early to organize my work for the day before my phone started ringing. On Tuesday morning, February 6th, I found on my desk blotter a memo from Leopold Tabatchnick: “I will see you in my office at 10:00 A. M. this morning, Feb. 6. L.T.”
I postponed an outside inquiry I had planned to make that morning, and at 9:50 went into the men’s room to make certain my hair was properly combed, the knot in my tie centered, and my fingernails clean. I also buffed my shoes with a paper towel.
The private offices of the senior partners occupied the largest (rear) suites on the second, third, and fourth floors, one over the other. Teitelbaum was on two Orsini on three, Tabatchnick on four. Mr. Tabatchnick’s secretary was seated at her desk in the hallway. She was Thelma Potts, a spinster of about sixty years, with a young face and whipped-cream hair. She wore high-necked blouses with a cameo brooch at the collar. She dispensed advice, made small loans, and never forgot birthdays or anniversaries. The bottom drawer of her desk was full of headache remedies, stomach powders, tranquilizers, Band-Aids, cough syrups, cold capsules, etc., available to anyone when needed. She kept a small paper cup among the drugs, and you were supposed to drop in a few coins now and then to help keep the pharmacy going.
“Good morning, Miss Potts,” I said.
“Good morning, Mr. Bigg,” she said. She glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. “You’re three minutes early.”
“I know,” I said. “I wanted to spend them with you.”
“Oh, you!” she said.
“I thought you were going to find me a wife, Miss Potts,” I said sorrowfully.
“When did I ever say that?” she demanded, blushing. “I am sure you are quite capable of finding a nice girl yourself.”
“No luck so far,” I said. “May I go in now?”
She consulted her watch again.
“Thirty seconds,” she said firmly.
I sighed. We waited in silence, Miss Potts staring at her watch.
“Now!” she said, like a track official starting a runner.
I knocked once on the heavy door, opened it, stepped inside, closed it behind me.
Instead of law books here, the room was lined with aquaria of tropical fish. There were tanks of all sizes and shapes, lighted from behind. Bubbles rose constantly from aerators. The atmosphere of the room was oppressively warm and humid. There were guppies, sea horses, angels, zebras, pink damsels, clowns, ghost eels, fire fish, purple queens, swordtails and a piranha.
They all made a glittering display in the clear, back-lighted tanks, darting about, blowing bubbles, kissing the glass, coming to the surface to spit.
The first time I’d met Mr. Tabatchnick, he’d asked me if I was interested in tropical fish. I’d confessed I was not.
“Hmph,” he’d said. “Then you have no conception of the comfort to be derived from the silent companionship of our finny friends.”
This was followed by a half-hour, tank-by-tank tour of the room, with Mr. Tabatchnick expounding on the Latin names, lifestyles, dispositions, feeding habits, sexual tendencies, and depravities of his finny friends. Most, apparently, ate their young. The lecture, I discovered later, had to be tolerated by every new employee. Thankfully, it was a one-shot, never repeated.
The man seated in the leather swivel chair behind the trestle table appeared to be in his middle seventies. He had a ponderous head set on a large, square, neckless frame, held so rigidly that you wondered if he had left a wooden coathanger in the shoulders of his jacket.
His hands were wide, with spatulate fingers, the skin discolored with keratosis. His arms seemed disproportionately long, and since he tended to lumber as he walked, with hunched shoulders, heavy head thrust forward, and a fierce scowl on his fleshy features, he was referred to by the law clerks and paralegal assistants as “King Kong.” In very small voices, of course.
But there was nothing simian about his face. If anything, his were the features of a weary bloodhound, all folds and wrinkles, wattles and jowls, with protruding, rubbery lips (always moist), and eyes so lachrymose that he always seemed on the point of sobbing. His normal expression was one of mournful distress, and it was said that he used it with great effect during his days as a trial lawyer to elicit the sympathy of the jury.
“Good morning, Mr. Tabatchnick,” I said brightly.
He bestowed upon me the nod of sovereign to serf, and gestured to a club chair at the side of the table.
“Sol Kipper,” he said. His voice was stentorian, rumbling. An organ of a voice. I wished I had been in the courtroom to hear his summations.
“I beg
your pardon, sir?” I said.
“Sol Kipper,” he repeated. “Solomon Kipper, to be precise. The name means nothing to you?”
I thought desperately. It was not a name you would easily forget. Then it came to me…
“I remember,” I said. “Solomon Kipper. A suicide about two weeks ago. From the top floor of his East Side townhouse. A small story in the Times.”
“Yes,” he said, the folds of skin wagging sadly, “a small story in the Times. I wish you to know, young man, that Sol Kipper was a personal friend of mine for fifty-five years and an esteemed client of this law firm for forty.”
There didn’t seem any fitting reply to that.
“We shall be handling the probate,” Mr. Tabatchnick continued. “Sol Kipper was a wealthy man. Not very wealthy, but wealthy. Cut and dried. I anticipated no problems.”
He paused, leaned forward, punched a button on the intercom on the table.
“Miss Potts,” he said, “will you come in, please? Bring your notes on the conversation I had late yesterday afternoon with that stranger.”
He settled back. We waited. Thelma Potts entered softly, carrying a spiral-bound steno pad. Mr. Tabatchnick did not ask her to sit down.
“Occasionally,” he said in a magisterial tone, “I deem it appropriate, during certain telephone communications, to ask Miss Potts to listen in on her extension and make notes. Very well, Miss Potts, you may begin…”
Thelma flipped over a few pages and began to translate her shorthand, peering through rimless spectacles and speaking rapidly in a flat, precisely enunciated voice:
“At 4:46 P.M., on the afternoon of Monday, February 5th, this year, a call was received at the main switchboard downstairs. A male voice asked to speak to the lawyer handling the Kipper estate. The call was switched to me. The man repeated his request. I asked him exactly what it was he wanted, but he said he would reveal that only to the attorney of record. As is usual in such cases, I suggested he write a letter requesting an interview and detailing his interest in the matter. This he said he would not do, and he stated that if the lawyer refused to talk to him, he would be sorry for it later. Those were his exact words: ‘He will be sorry for it later.’ I then asked if he would hold. He agreed. I put him on hold, and called Mr. Tabatchnick on the intercom, explaining what was happening. He agreed to speak to the caller, but requested that I stay on the extension and take notes.”
The Tenth Commandment Page 2
