Restitution

by Lee Vance

  If only it were that simple. Jenna’s been slipping away from me for years, her energy and attention increasingly focused on causes. I’ve never known what to say, afraid of sounding selfish. Anger and frustration led me to make mistakes. I tried apologizing when the big blow-up came, but it didn’t do any good. Jenna asked me to leave last week. She said she couldn’t stand to feel as alone as she did when we were together.

  “You know what I like about work?” I ask Tigger, snapping my watch back onto my wrist.

  “Ridin’ on my back?”

  “The fact that the rules never change. Me and you and the other guys work our butts off every day and the next morning we get a number that tells us how we did. Good numbers are good and bad numbers are bad, and as long as we make money, we don’t have to give a shit how Josh or anyone else feels about it.”

  “Petey,” Tigger says quietly. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  Keisha opens the door again, saving me from the need to reply.

  “I’m getting coffee,” she says. “You guys want?” Keisha’s smart, twenty-five, has honey brown skin the shade of buffed pear wood, and is wearing a little yellow dress that’s driving half the guys on the floor crazy.

  “My heart’s already beatin’ too fast,” Tigger replies, clutching his chest theatrically. “You’re gonna kill one of us old guys if you keep dressin’ like that.”

  “I’m a little uncomfortable with that remark,” Keisha says sternly, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Peter?”

  Tigger’s only mouthing off to provoke me. Eve Lemonde, our head of Human Resources, leaned on me big-time a few years back with Josh’s support, insisting I rein in the locker room chatter so prevalent on trading floors. I reluctantly agreed to start fining guys for remarks in violation of the employee conduct code, a wordy, gender-confused affirmation of political correctness that forbids expression of all human instincts save greed. The proceeds go to an employee-nominated charity, but every time I fine someone I feel like a corporate tool. Tigger’s the number-one offender, happy to contribute all the money he saves on ties, hamburgers, and haircuts to the pot if it causes me a little angst. Eve’s been urging me to fire him for years, a fact that only amuses him further.

  “It’s okay by me if your boyfriend beats the crap out of him,” I say. Keisha’s engaged to a guy at NYU Medical School who’s built like a train.

  “It’s a thought,” she says. “But I’d be happier if you socked him with a big fine. I designated the pot this month. The money’s going to my grandfather. He runs an after-school program for kids at the public library up in Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Let’s not make Peter the bad guy,” Tigger says to Keisha, winking at her. “Tell you what: He owes me eight hundred bucks because he shoots hoops like a girl. I’ll contribute that.”

  “Done,” I say, feeling like I’ve been trick-bagged. “Print out a check please, Keisha. And I’d like an espresso.”

  “Make the check for fifteen hundred,” Tigger says, “because he’s gonna get the deduction. I’ll contribute fifteen hundred also, as a credit against all the wrong things I’m plannin’ to think about you later. And get me a latte. Spendin’ money makes me tired.”

  “Good by you?” Keisha asks, looking at me.

  “If Tigger buys the coffee.”

  “People call me a cheap bastard,” he says, taking a twenty out of his wallet.

  “You guys are the best,” she says, starting to close the door. “Thanks.” She sticks her head back in at the last moment, mock-glowers at Tigger, and whispers fiercely, “I’d kick your skinny butt at hoops any day of the week.”

  “Nice girl,” Tigger says after she’s gone. “She’d be good in a sales job.”

  “I’ve been working on it, but Lemonde has to approve, and she doesn’t like the fact that Keisha went to a junior college. I’m trying to play a minority card.”

  “Shit,” Tigger says, looking disgusted. “Don’t let her find out.”

  I shrug. One reason this is my office instead of Tigger’s is that I’m more willing to do what I need to do to get things done.

  “You still owe me an answer,” Tigger says. “Jenna. What’s goin’ on?”

  I stare through the window onto the trading floor, sharing the quiet pleasure of watching Keisha walk to the elevator with about fifty other guys while I wrestle with the urge to confide in Tigger. Picking up the orange Nerf ball from my desk, I launch it toward the hoop.

  “One more game,” I say, watching the shot drop. “Loser buys lunch for the floor.”

  2

  “WAIT A TICK,” I say a few hours later, putting one of our economists on hold and punching the flashing intercom button. “What’s up?”

  “Josh on your rollover,” Keisha says.

  “Pick up line one and tell Kenny I’ll get back to him, please. And ask Tigger to join me.”

  “The pizza came to three hundred and twenty dollars with the tip. I put it on your Visa card.”

  “Thanks.” I got off cheap. If Tigger’d lost, I would have told Keisha to order sushi. Picking up my second line, I suffer through the “Hold for Josh” routine again.

  “Peter,” Josh says. “Are you familiar with an outfit called Fondation l’Etoile?”

  He’s in business mode, which is good. Beleaguered and solicitous are the emotional states to watch out for.

  “Not particularly.”

  “You’re listed as their internal contact in our system.”

  “L’Etoile’s a charitable organization of some sort. A friend of mine is on the board. He said they might want to trade some cash bonds so I had the credit guys set them up. Is there a problem?”

  “No. But William Turndale’s interested in them for some reason. That’s why he called. He’d like to know anything we can tell him.”

  Tigger slips in and I point to my handset, mouthing Josh’s name. He frowns and settles on the edge of the couch.

  “How did William find out we did business with l’Etoile?” I ask.

  “He had one of his traders ask around.”

  I scribble a note on a yellow pad, reminding myself to find out which of my guys shot his mouth off.

  “I thought firm policy was not to discuss one client with another.”

  Josh chews on my implied rebuke for a moment.

  “I hardly think William’s asking us to reveal anything confidential,” he says stiffly.

  “It doesn’t particularly matter,” I reply, figuring I’ve made my point. “My friend on l’Etoile’s board works for Turndale. Andrei Zhilina. If William has any questions, it’s better he speak to Andrei directly.”

  “Zhilina?” Josh repeats. “Related to Katya?”

  “Her brother. He runs Turndale’s Moscow office. He worked here, actually, about twenty years ago. We were analysts together.”

  It occurs to me that William’s call to Josh might work in my favor, giving me an excuse to get in touch with Andrei. I haven’t had the nerve to call him since my falling-out with Katya a few weeks ago, unsure what she might have told him, or how he’d react. Losing Katya as a friend was painful enough; losing Andrei as well would be devastating.

  “Tell me,” Josh begins, and then pauses. His secretary is saying something I can’t quite make out in the background. She sounds upset. “Just a moment …” His voice trails off.

  He puts me on hold, his secretary’s voice looping in my head as I try to decipher her words. I could swear she said my name. Thirty seconds pass, a vague apprehension creeping over me. Tigger raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “He’s talking to someone else,” I say. “Affairs of state maybe.”

  Tigger grins. A sharp click announces Josh’s return.

  “Something’s come up,” Josh says rapidly, his words running together. “I have to go now.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” he gabbles. “I really am so sorry.”

  The line goes dead. I stare at my handset curious
ly and then toss it on the desk, my uneasiness growing.

  “What was that about?” Tigger asks.

  “No clue. Josh called to tell me Turndale was asking questions about a client I brought in last year, was interrupted by his secretary, and then said he had to go, sounding like his pants were on fire.”

  “Some journalist probably misspelled his name.”

  I smile automatically, a movement on the trading floor catching my attention. Eve Lemonde and a man and woman I’ve never seen before are walking toward Keisha’s desk. The man looks like a bricklayer dressed to visit his bank manager, the woman as if she’s playing the male lead in a sorority theatrical. Keisha glances up as they approach.

  “Peter?” Tigger says.

  I motion him silent, watching. Keisha listens for a few seconds and then turns to look at me, her expression a dagger to my heart.

  “What’s wrong?” Tigger asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, afraid that I might. I’ve lived this moment before, when I was fifteen. Time becomes syrupy as Keisha leads the others to my door, slowing enough for me to process the gold badges clipped to the strangers’ waists, the tears already tracking Keisha’s mascara, and Eve’s practiced look of sympathy. They enter my office and tell me what’s happened. My vision stutters and swims like low-bandwidth video. Keisha’s a yellow blur outside the door; the two cops twitch awkwardly in my desk chairs; Eve vanishes and reappears like a Cheshire bureaucrat. Tigger stands beside me, his hand clutching mine, tears shining on his face. I sit as tall as I can behind my desk, holding the news at a remove, trying to stay in control. Words penetrate the static in my head like an AM radio signal bounced cross-country off thunderheads, fading in and out.

  “Mr. Tyler,” the male cop is saying. Eve introduced him, but I didn’t catch his name. “It’s important we move as quick as we can when we’re investigating a murder. We need you to answer a couple of questions for us.”

  I nod, trying to focus my attention on him. His face is toadlike, pale jowls overflowing his collar beneath dark, hooded eyes.

  “Our first take was that your wife just got unlucky. She surprised a burglar in your garage and he hit her with something metal, like a pry bar. There’s a couple of things that don’t add up, though. Her purse was still there, and her hair was pushed back from her face after she was down. It could have been someone that knew her. Can you think of anybody that might have wanted to hurt her?”

  “No,” I manage to say, an image of Jenna beaten and bloodied pulsing in my brain.

  “An old boyfriend maybe? Some guy who had a crush on her?”

  “Not that I know about.”

  “I see.” He fishes a pen, a small spiral pad, and a pair of skinny black reading glasses from his jacket pockets. Slipping on the glasses, he opens the pad and begins turning pages with a moistened thumb. “The neighbor said she was doing public advocacy work. What kind of work was that?”

  I open my mouth but can’t seem to formulate a reply that puts Jenna in the past tense. A sudden vertigo makes me clutch the underside of my desk as Tigger answers.

  “Jenna was a lawyer,” Tigger says, his voice choked up. “She did pro bono stuff. The last couple of years, she’s been workin’ full-time on a lawsuit against New York State, because they underfund urban schools.”

  “Pro what?” the cop asks, taking notes.

  “Bono,” his female partner answers. “B-o-n-o. She was working for free.”

  The male cop swivels his entire upper body to stare at her from beneath his glasses, an expression of distaste on his face. “Detective Tilling’s a law student,” he sneers. “As if the world needs another—” He falls silent abruptly, Tigger’s grip tightening on mine.

  “If you have questions, ask them,” Tigger says furiously.

  “A few more things,” the male cop says, straightening in his chair and glancing at Tigger expressionlessly. He flips some pages backward and looks at me again. “Did your wife travel much on her job?”

  “Albany,” I say, unsure how much longer I can hold it together.

  “She spend many nights up there?”

  “One or two every couple of months.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says. “And what about you? You travel much?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You been traveling much recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you travel last?”

  “I got back from Toronto on Friday. Up and back overnight.”

  “So where were you this past weekend?” he asks, pencil poised.

  Some nosy fucking neighbor must’ve told him I wasn’t home. My brain feels jammed, the seized cogs straining against one another. There’s no way I’m going to drag my relationship with Jenna through the mud by telling some wannabe Columbo about our problems.

  “Mr. Tyler,” he says, lowering his voice as he leans toward me. “I know how you feel but I’ve got to ask. Were you having any marital difficulties?”

  His name is Rommy, I suddenly recall. Detective Rommy.

  “You know how I feel, Detective Rommy?” I ask, the pressure in my skull building as his words echo.

  “Maybe you’d rather talk about this alone,” he says, waving toward Tigger and Eve.

  “You know how I feel?” I ask again.

  “I been married,” he says, giving me a quick man-to-man wink. “It’s hazardous duty. Sometimes you take a bullet; sometimes you gotta cut loose for a little R and R. Either way, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Rage propels me to my feet.

  “You don’t know a single fucking thing about how I feel,” I shout, leaning over the desk and punching my finger toward him. “I loved my wife and I don’t know anyone who would want to hurt her. Now get out of my office and go do your fucking job before I pick up the phone and figure out how to get hold of whoever your boss reports to. You too, Eve. I want you all out of here right fucking now.”

  “Jesus,” Tigger says, dropping the window blinds after Eve and the cops have cleared out. Rommy made a fuss, but Eve smoothed things over. Tigger catches me by both shoulders and gazes into my face.

  “Petey …”

  “I’m going to need a few minutes here, Tigger,” I say, interrupting him.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be right outside.”

  He closes the door quietly. Tears flood from my eyes as I drop my head into my hands. Jenna.

  3

  TIGGER BACKS HIS VOLVO WAGON into a spot shaded by a spreading elm, nose pointed to the redbrick Catholic church on the hill above us. He cracks the windows before switching off the ignition, admitting a humid breeze. Cicadas chirp monotonously; a bedraggled monarch butterfly clings to the hood, orange-and-black wings beating listlessly. It’s 11:30. We’re half an hour early, the first to arrive. A dark blue Ford rigged with radio mast and spotlight creeps past and parks on the far side of the lot, sunlight flashing off a camera lens pointed through the open passenger window. Tigger uncaps a thermos, pours cool mint tea, and passes a cup to me. He nods toward the Ford.

  “Fuckin’ cops.”

  I don’t respond, not wanting to get into it. Today’s going to be hard enough without letting the police get to me. Either because of my outburst or because they haven’t got any other leads, the cops have decided to play the odds, which means they’ve spent most of their time investigating me. The last ten days have been nightmare punctuated by low comedy, with Detective Rommy and his thuggish cohorts omnipresent in the role of threatening clowns, their ludicrous insinuations increasingly sinister. I’ve hired a lawyer to keep Rommy at bay, and a team of private investigators to double-check the cops and their investigation. The report I got on Rommy was exactly what I’d expected.

  Tigger shifts uncomfortably in the seat next to me. Silence is hard for him. He’s been trying to persuade me to open up, but I can’t bear the thought of revisiting my mistakes with Jenna at this point. A third car pulls in and parks, and then two
more. I drop the visor to make myself less visible. College friends, business school classmates, neighbors, and colleagues walk past as the lot fills. Quite a few of Jenna’s colleagues, less of mine, but then, her firm shut down for the day so everyone could attend—the financial markets don’t close for anyone except dead presidents.

  Katya arrives without Andrei, and my heart sinks further. She sent a note, but I’ve been leery of getting back to her. Difficult as our relationship was before, it’s unimaginably more confused now. Andrei’s the person I need to speak with. He’s the only one I could ever talk to about my problems with Jenna, and he’s seen me through tough times before. When my father died, Andrei flew from London to Ohio for the funeral. The evening after the ceremony, we climbed the hill where my dad and I had gone to look at stars when I was a boy. We set up my father’s telescope, built a fire, and spent the night drinking the remnants of his whiskey. A breeze rose toward dawn and I cast his ashes skyward, a gray plume streaming north toward the Great Lakes.

  “Jenna’s parents?” Tigger asks.

  I glance in the direction he’s looking and nod, not surprised he recognized them. Mary O’Brien’s a three-quarter-scale version of Jenna, a woman who wore her age lightly until recently. Independent-minded and plainspoken to a fault, she’s been excoriating the police in the press, chastising them for wasting time and energy investigating me when they should be focused on picking up other leads. We’ve met twice recently and talked on the phone a couple of times; it’s evident Jenna hadn’t confided our problems to her.

  Careworn as Mary appears, the more dramatic change is in her husband. Ed’s an old union stalwart, a blustering roustabout with a drinker’s gut and a laborer’s shoulders, who’s insisted on arm wrestling every Christmas since I first began dating Jenna. My current record is 0 and 22. Today, his head hangs as he shuffles beside his wife like a punch-drunk fighter, rendered feeble by grief. Jenna was their only child.

  I close my eyes, willing myself to calm down. Jenna inherited both her mother’s outspokenness and her father’s idealism. She took me to task for my conservative leanings the first time we met, approaching me at a pub night senior year and ridiculing a column I’d written for the college newspaper. We spent an hour arguing about Reagan and his Great Society budget cuts before I offered to walk her home.