The Inglorious Arts

by Alan Hruska

  “That’s probably true,” Harry says.

  “And Allis-Benoit got some business, right?”

  “You mean, did they sell some turbine generators? Of course. And circuit breakers and the rest of it.”

  “So at least on big sales, they cut the price,” Alec says. “Probably in a disguised way to prevent Edison from finding out about it—free goods or services, or something like that, maybe better credit terms—but definite price cuts. Has to be true. Because why else would anyone buy from Allis-Benoit? These are huge machines. Very expensive. The customer needs to believe the manufacturer will be around forever to service them. Edison gives rise to that belief. With Allis-Benoit—well, now there’s got to be some question.”

  “It seems you’ve done your research,” Harry says.

  “Research? Harry, I just said. I know nothing about this market and haven’t had time to think about this case until I walked in here. But—regarding the identical price books—if Allis did what it would have done without any agreement, and—regarding actual sales—if Allis cut prices, then there wasn’t a meeting of the minds. Which means no conspiracy.”

  “Hmm,” Hanrahan says, steepling his fingers and puckering his thin, pinkish-gray lips. “I’ve pursued both lines of inquiry,although”—and he gives another wan smile—“it took me a good deal longer than two seconds to arrive at either idea. But our salespeople aren’t being helpful. They vehemently deny giving any price cuts, disguised or otherwise.”

  “I doubt that’s true.”

  “Maybe, but if they’re covering it up—and they might be, since they’re under strict instructions from top management not to give discounts—it would be awfully hard for us to dig any such hanky-panky out of the files. These transactions are incredibly complicated. It’s never as simple as the sale of one machine. There are many optional parts, many auxiliary devices, and many different types of service arrangements and warranties. You’d need teams of lawyers, businessmen, and accountants working day and night on these files.”

  Alec sits back. “This case is a nightmare.”

  “It needs a young man,” Harry says.

  To turn into an old one, Alec thinks. But he says, “You and Mac did the cases years ago, when they fixed prices in hotel rooms.”

  “That we did. Nearly put me in the grave. Nothing so depressing and demanding as the unwinnable case. So Alec—if you take this on, clear your decks. Of everything. Professional and personal. You’re not going to have room for anything else in your life.”

  THREE

  There are boys his age who live for basketball. Tino Angiapello isn’t one of them—he can take it or leave it—but he almost never misses a shot. At six feet, two inches, he’s a bit short for college play at his position, which is “small” forward. However, he’s not that interested in college sports either. At Trinity School in Manhattan, where he averages more than twenty points in a thirty-two-minute game, his star quality suffices for what he is interested in: the girls of his set.

  Tino has been admitted to Cornell on a basketball scholarship—another thing he’d rather pass up. His preference would be to start working immediately for his Uncle Sal. Even at eighteen, Tino knows a good thing. Our thing, as he and his family still think of it. Cosa Nostra, as it’s called now, even by civilians.

  Tino was born into the family, but not as an Angiapello. Both his parents were killed in an auto riddled by bullets when Tino was five. He was adopted by Sal’s brother and sister-in-law but lost his adoptive father in a gang war. Since then, his male influence has been Sal. And for Sal, who has never had children of his own, Tino is favored, despite the lack of a blood tie, though there are still many tests to be passed.

  Uncle Sal’s in the stands today. Tino, who loves showing off, always plays better when the don is there. And today, Tino is “unconscious,” as they’re now saying in the schoolyards; in a definite “zone.” Trinity is up, 23 to 8, and Tino has sixteen of his team’s total. Near halftime, the game is a complete rout, and the coach sits him down. Though he starts the second half, he gets yanked almost immediately, as penance for five quick points, and rides the bench unhappily until the final whistle.

  Postgame, their ritual when Sal attends Tino’s games is early dinner at a family-owned ristorante on the Upper West Side. After ordering, Tino apologizes for his uncle’s having to watch other players.

  “No problem,” Sal says. “Your coach didn’t want to embarrass an overmatched team. I understand.” Sal’s speech is formal in cadence and tone, which Tino has unconsciously adopted.

  “He should have realized you were there,” Tino says.

  Sal laughs. “This is not my world, Tino. The parent body of your school consists of bankers and lawyers.”

  “But it will be your world! Right? I know. I hear talk.”

  “What do you hear?”

  Tino gets excited. “I want to work for you, Uncle. Now. Whatever the business, the old-line stuff, the new, the banking, real estate.”

  “You go to college, first; law school, maybe business school, then we’ll see.”

  “I don’t need all these schools, Uncle.”

  Sal frowns, which in the family is a serious matter. “Are you willing to listen to me? To take my advice?”

  “Of course,” Tino says.

  “You will go where I tell you to go.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “I know what’s best.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good boy.” He pats his nephew’s cheek. “From time to time, maybe I’ll have jobs for you.”

  “Anything,” Tino says eagerly.

  “Good. Because I have one now, actually. A job no one else in our famiglia is capable of doing. Only you.”

  “Only me?”

  “Yes. Because it involves someone of your age.” Sal reconsiders. “Close to your age.”

  “Just tell me, Uncle. It’s as good as done.”

  “You have a second cousin. Did you know that?”

  “No, Uncle. Who is he?”

  “It’s a girl. She lives in Manhattan. Goes to a fancy school like yours. You probably haven’t run across her, since she is a bit younger than you. Her father was my cousin, first cousin. Changed his name from ours to Anwar. Phil Anwar. He ran everything in Manhattan, most of Brooklyn, and parts of New Jersey.”

  “Like you,” Tino says. “Only you have parts of Queens and the Bronx too. The best parts.”

  “I took over his territories and expanded. When I came down from Bridgeport.”

  “But you knew him?”

  “Oh, yes. We did business. But he got careless and got killed. Man who killed him married his wife and adopted his daughter. And all of Phil’s money—a lot of money—went to her, the daughter. This was money earned in family businesses. You see what I’m saying?”

  “The money should stay in the family.”

  “You’re a bright boy.”

  Tino considers his new station. A job for the family that only he can do. A heaven-sent opportunity. Except it’s not all that clear how it might ultimately be done. “So,” he says cautiously, “the first step is to meet her. See where her mind is with respect to the family.”

  Sal, giving a nod acknowledging his nephew’s perception, hands the young man an envelope. “Photograph, contact information, her schedule, which, apart from school, is erratic, friends, also erratic, places she hangs out. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you to meet her.”

  “You said she was younger…”

  “She’ll be sixteen next month. She’s two years, a few months younger than you.”

  Tino rubs his mouth, as if regretting his enthusiasm for this task. “That makes it harder.”

  “She’s very pretty,” his uncle says. “And precocious.”

  “You know her?”

  “I knew her when she was a child. And I’ve kept my eye on her.”

  “She knows the history?” Tino says. “And the name? She will suspect me?”

&nbs
p; “Yes. She will. She will suspect anyone with our name. Which is why I’ve chosen you. You are the only one bearing the name who can gain her trust. And who I trust.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.”

  “There’s a lot at stake here. You understand? More than $300 million. All clean, because her father died.”

  The amount surprises Tino. It sounds to him like unlimited riches.

  “There are, of course,” Sal says offhandedly, “other ways of handling the matter. But let’s see how this works. How you do. Yes?”

  “Yes, Uncle, certainly,” Tino says, feeling progressively uncertain about what, exactly, he is being called upon to do.

  His uncle looks at him sternly. “I have let you close, Tino. Closer than anyone. And there is no male in my bloodline. I believe you know what that means. For the future. Your future. Capisce?”

  That Tino understands fully.

  Alec gets home close to nine. Early for him, but past Sarah’s dinner, which a housekeeper provides. An unfamiliar suitcase languishes in the hallway. The hall light is on, and sounds drift down the corridor from Sarah’s room.

  Alec goes there and knocks.

  “Come!” Sarah has learned this from the old James Mason English movies that she occasionally watches on TV. The variations in her taste never cease to amaze him.

  She and Jesse seem surprised to see Alec, as if he’d caught them conspiring. Alec’s surprised to see his sister-in-law still there, let alone curled up on the end of the bed.

  Jesse springs up to greet him. “Alec!” Maybe an inch shorter than Carrie, and even thinner. Hair auburn and thick, as if to compensate. Her bones are delicate but a bit sharp, like that slight jut at the bridge of her nose, which stretches her fine skin. Her eyes are expressive and green, but she looks worn with travel, which, he realizes, she must be.

  “So you made it,” Alec says.

  “All in one piece.”

  “Not much baggage.”

  “Oh, I’ve lots of baggage,” Jesse says. “Not the kind checkable at airports, however.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Staten Island. With friends.”

  “Really?” Alec says. “How’re you planning on getting there?”

  “Subway, ferry. Usual ways. Those things are still running, right?”

  Alec looks at his watch. “You should stay here for the night.”

  “I have a better idea,” Sarah says. “Jesse moves in. My au pair.” Alec smiles, humoring this barely.

  “It’s a great idea, Alec.”

  “You’re a sophomore in high school,” he says lightly. “You need an au pair?”

  “Tutor, then. I could certainly use that.”

  Jesse, reacting to Alec’s reserve, says, “I’ve already turned down Sarah’s very kind offer. But I will accept yours. For the night. Equally kind.”

  “Wait a minute!” says Sarah. “I haven’t been heard yet. We have a perfectly good bedroom here, totally empty, never used.It’s ridiculous you’re going off to live with some other family. We’re your family. And au pairing is not what you want to do. Stay here until you hook on with some film thing in New York. In fact, there’s no reason you should leave, then.”

  “Sarah,” says Jesse, “we just talked about this.”

  “Yes, we talked, but—”

  “I’m sorry, but no.”

  “Why not?” Sarah insists, on the edge of anger. “ That you really haven’t told me.”

  “Okay,” Jesse says, if not angry, at least out of patience. “Why not? Because. This lovely man here, your father, of whom we shall now speak as if he weren’t in the room, is unattached, as far as I know, and mourns his wife, who looked just like me. And I am also unattached, thank goodness, since that was not always the case. And if I were to move in, how cozy. And awkward. And unendurable. Are you beginning to get it, Sarah?”

  Sarah’s lips press together. “Yes. Honesty, finally. Thanks.”

  “You can stay as long as you like,” he says, almost meaning it. Jesse laughs. “Tonight would be great. I should be settled elsewhere tomorrow.”

  Alec hands her a folded sheet of paper he had in his pocket. “These are the two best agencies in the city. I’m told you can trust them. And they get paid by the family, not you. I’m also told, with your credentials, you’ll have your choice tomorrow of ten good jobs.”

  “Thanks,” Jesse says, scanning the paper.

  “You can do better,” he says. “I represent a media company.”

  “Oh? Do they make films?”

  “Not yet. Print media. Radio, TV, but probably have more openings abroad than here.”

  “Let me know when they make films.”

  “Right,” Alec says and turns to his daughter. “Jesse’s been traveling all day. For her, it’s two in the morning. I’ll get her settled in the spare bedroom; you finish your homework.”

  “And then,” Sarah says, “what will you do? Watch silly television and relax?”

  Alec laughs.

  “It’s what he always does,” Sarah says to her aunt, throwing herself into a familiar comedy routine. “I can’t get the man to do any work. Any day now, it’s going to be starvation, eviction, out on the street.”

  “I can see you’re hurting,” Jesse says.

  “Yeah, well, that’s what we do, keep up appearances.”

  Alec leads Jesse down the hall, stopping at the linen closet for blankets and sheets.

  “Look,” Jesse says, lifting her suitcase onto the bed. “Forget what I said. I sometimes give in to these emotional bursts. Especially when jet-lagged.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “About what I said?”

  “About the fact that you’re very much like her.”

  “That,” she says, “I can’t help.”

  Alec smiles and starts to leave. “Oh, listen. If there’s anything you need, I’ll be in that small room next to the living room.”

  “Your study,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “Working all night?”

  “A good part of it.”

  “Sarah was wrong,” Jesse says.

  “Oh, yes?” Alec says. “About what?”

  “That she’s the one who needs looking after.”

  Saying goodnight to his sister-in-law, closing the door to her room, traversing the hall—Alec feels as if he’s walking out of his body. The sensation stays with him as he sits at his desk. It’s an unaccustomed feeling of lightness. A friend of his, a shrink, said to him recently, “Four years of mourning is not a world record, but it’s not that common. And it’s certainly not healthy.” But neither, he muses, is starting a relationship with my dead wife’s sister.

  He opens a brief he was working on. It scarcely dents the new stream of his thoughts. He has the instinct to cool it. He’s heard her objection; he knows his own: looks like a crude tradeoff. Put one in the grave; take the next-best thing. He drops the brief altogether. What I’m good at, he thinks, is self-laceration. I’m overthinking the goddamn thing, and so is she.

  A further thought arrives—and overrides. Her sleeping in this apartment is tremendously upsetting, but not in a bad way.

  FOUR

  Ten years ago, in 1963, Alec had served as secretary to the judiciary committee of the Association of the Bar of the City of New York, more popularly known as the City Bar. Ben Braddock, who himself eschewed any bar association committee, had pushed Alec to take the post. One of the committee members, Hiram Starke, was the senior partner of a very small, but respected, midtown firm. Drinking one night in the executive secretary’s office, Starke confided to Alec that he had misgivings over the fact that his most junior partner, Cadigan Breen, had “wild” ambitions to build a firm to the unheard-of size of 500 lawyers. Took Breen only ten years to do it—the turning point being his spiriting away his now-major client, Edison Electric, from a “white shoe” firm even older than Kendall, Blake.

  Being driven uptown for his first meeting with Bree
n, Alec sorts out what he’s been told about the man by Harry Hanrahan and Frank Macalister. But his driver, Schlomo, it turns out, is a more informed source.

  “That address I’m taking you to,” Schlomo says as he pulls into the fast lane on the FDR Drive. “That’s the fanciest office building in the city.”

  “So I gather.”

  “The most expensive too. And you know, the firm that just took over the top floors—the head of that firm, I drive him all the time. As much as I drive you. Maybe more.”

  “I’m about to meet with him.”

  “Yeah. I thought so. That’s why I’m telling you.”

  “We’re talking about Caddy Breen?”

  “Well, I call him Mister Breen,” Schlomo says. “You understand. It’s the nature of our relative positions in life.”

  “You don’t call me mister.”

  “You’re younger. Although, to think of it, your soul may be older.”

  “What the hell does that mean, Schlomo?”

  “It’s an expression.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Alec can see the big shoulders shrug. “You understand Yiddish?” Schlomo asks.

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Okay. So I’ll try. This man, Mr. Breen, it’s like there’s joy in him, bubbling up like a spring. All the time. I’ve seen him angry, but it doesn’t last long. Right away, back with the smiles.”

  “And I’m not like that?”

  “No, but you’ll like him. Everyone does.”

  “Everyone?”

  “I hear talk. About you too. They like you also. But no one would ever accuse you of having a spring of joy inside.”

  Upstairs, at reception, Alec is simply directed to the corner office down the hall. No fuss, no imperious “take a seat, please, and he’ll be with you shortly,” no secretary or assistant offering an escort to the inner chambers of the great man.