The Inglorious Arts

by Alan Hruska

  “Or he may just grab her sooner.”

  Alec says slowly, “We’re doing what we can, Jess, to stop that.”

  “This sucks.”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “It must be like what you went through with Phil.”

  “Very much like.”

  “But you beat him,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  She sits at the island in front of her broken plate. “You want a salad?”

  “No thanks,” he says, getting a glass of water for himself. “Ate at the office.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What did you eat?”

  He laughs. “Haven’t the slightest memory of it.”

  She laughs too, but wryly, and gathers the shards of porcelain into a pile. “So tell me. Anything. The rest of your day.”

  He takes the chair facing her and tells of his trip to Washington, his meeting with the chief judge, and other encounters.

  “My god!” she says. “How can you get through a day like that without coming home catatonic?”

  “Can’t,” he says with a smile.

  “So no sex tonight?”

  That sends a current. “You were hoping we might?”

  “My days are not as complicated as yours,” she says. “I have the time to think about anything. Which very often means sex, if I’m to be totally candid.”

  “Candor is definitely best.”

  “Not always,” she says.

  His look is pensive, which is not what she expects. “Last night—” he starts.

  “Yes. It was wonderful.”

  “And tonight?”

  “Tonight,” she says. “Yes… tonight I will sleep in your bed.”

  “Sounds… provisional.”

  “No, Alec, it’s not. It’s….” She touches his arm, shrugs, then gets up for a dishrag with which she sweeps the broken plate into a trash can. She finds another plate for her salad. He’s been watching every move, and she looks up from spooning her salad onto the new dish. “You knew my parents, right? Conner and Kate?”

  “I knew your mom. Briefly. She came to the wedding. Never met your dad.”

  “You didn’t miss much. She was no prize, but he? A drunk, a hanger-on looking for handouts. A lawyer, if you could believe it, but mainly a bagman for the mob. It’s how Carrie met Phil. Conner worshipped Carrie but was so self-seeking, he brought her to meet Phil. Who eventually killed him. You know that story?”

  “Yes,” he says softly.

  “When Conner and Kate produced Carrie, there might have been something left to whatever relationship they once had. But I was an accident. Or probably worse. It might have been rape. I know Kate hated him. And neither one of them thought much of me. I couldn’t leave that house fast enough. When Phil offered to pay my tuition and board in Ireland—no doubt to keep me out of the way—I jumped at it. When I came back, I met this guy, and I had a surprising physical attraction to him.” She stops. “No, that’s less than I mean. It was surprisingly overwhelming. But, of course, Carrie had gotten there first. As always.”

  “Jesse—”

  “It’s the answer to your question,” she says. “Boiled down from—I don’t know—a couple of hundred hours of therapy.”

  “I didn’t ask a question.”

  “Yes you did. And I’m saying, I’m not your normal puttogether-right girl. I can get pretty wacky. Like now. About thoroughly trusting any relationship. I need more than the—what do you lawyers call it?—the standard quantum of proof.”

  “Where’d you get that expression?” Alec says.

  “The guy in Dublin—the one I had a relationship with—he was a barrister. A kind, graceful, very smart man. Like you. Only he wasn’t you. So you see? For me you’re a double whammy. Can’t have other guys, because they’re not you. Can’t have you, because I’m not my sister.”

  “You do have me, Jess.”

  “Why?” she asks straight-faced.

  “Why?”

  “Yes. Why me?”

  “Why do you think? I like wacky girls.”

  “I thought you liked candor.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Candor. Because you’re the sexiest woman alive.”

  “Alive, right. That’s the key.”

  Alec says, “I think we should stop talking about this, Jess. I love you; I loved your sister; and there is no connection whatever between those two facts. In ten years you will have forgotten you ever thought there was.”

  “Ha.”

  “You want proof?” he says. “You will have it. That’s a promise.”

  “A promise?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. So finish your dinner so we can go to bed.”

  After she eats her salad and cleans up, they go to his bedroom, Jesse making no pretense of going anyplace else. But she says, “I’ll use the bathroom in the other room and come back.”

  Alec undresses in his own bathroom and washes up. By the time he emerges and turns off the light, Jesse is already in bed. He slides in and holds her. “You forgot your nightgown,” he says.

  “Nope. I didn’t forget.” She turns to kiss him on the mouth, her tongue slipping between his teeth. “I like your toothpaste,” she says.

  “I know what you’re doing,” he says, squeezing her bare bottom. “You are de-romanticizing this moment.”

  “What I am doing,” she says, “is exerting the little control I have left, because in another moment I will have lost every bit of it.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Cadigan Breen calls the next morning. Edison Electric will accept the decree as written. “The other project—your crazy settlement-for-counsel-fees idea—is underway,” Breen adds, “although, I’ll tell you this, Alec, no one gives it a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  Ten minutes later, Eric Stapleton’s on the line. “Regarding the decree, Alec—you have Edison Electric ready to sign?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay. You get your signed copies to me by courier today and we’ll put out a release tomorrow. No crowing. Just the facts.”

  “I’d like to see that, the release. And I’m sure Caddy would. You have one drafted?”

  Long pause. “Okay,” Stapleton finally says. “It’s four sentences. I’ll have my secretary dictate it to yours.” Shorter pause. “Now on that other matter.”

  “Computer Corp.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Mind saying why?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Yes, okay.”

  “Well, morale,” Stapleton says. “Within the division. Too many people working too long. I can’t just change their direction.”

  “There’d be no change at all,” Alec says. “Not in direction. They’d be trying the same case on the same record. Only difference, they’d be doing it before a judge who was sane. And smart. And objective.”

  Stapleton lets out a weary sigh. “Do I really have to spell this out for you, Alec?”

  “No,” Alec says. “You just did.”

  Alec calls George Stigler and fills him in on the turbine generator situation.

  “Well, that’s typical,” Stigler says. “There was one small ember of price competition left burning in this market, and the government decree will now snuff it out. Nice going, Antitrust Division. But I suppose you are to be congratulated. Let’s hope your victory isn’t Pyrrhic.”

  “But you think otherwise?”

  “Look at the facts,” Stigler says. “The government has now declared that your guys and Edison Electric have been fixing prices. That’s probably not true, but that’s what their new complaint will say. Do the PUCs need more? Populated as they are by political animals. Their function, as they see it, is to be popular with the rate-payers. And the ratepayers are happy only if they can get lower rates. This can happen if the utilities collect damages from you. And the only thing stopping the PUCs from forcing the utilities to sue now is that Mid-Atlantic is doing it for them. The que
stion is, how long will they all wait? Any one of them sues, every one of them will follow. I’m told that Philadelphia Electric lawyer—what’s his name?”

  “Harold Kohn?”

  “That’s the guy. You know him? I’m told he’s the toughest antitrust lawyer in the country.”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure,” Alec says, “but I’m aware of him, yeah.”

  “Well, keep me posted—I always enjoy watching someone trying to perform magic. It’s what makes church so much fun.”

  One more essential call. Alec dials the chief judge’s private line. “They’re not buying it,” he says.

  “That’s final? You sure?”

  “Yes.” Alec waits for Rivvy Kane fully to ingest it.

  “All right,” says the jurist. “I hate to reward this man, Stapleton, for his limitations. But that’s the process, isn’t it? The Peter Principle. Isn’t that what it’s called? Promoting everyone to the level of their incompetence? Ha!” And he hangs up without giving a clue as to how he plans to achieve such an elevation.

  Days pass. The government complaint is filed; the decree is entered; space is bestowed to both events in all major media, especially the financial press. No word from the utilities lawyer, Marius Shilling, about his clients’ reactions to either. Nothing from Caddy Breen about Edison’s attempt to rid themselves of the Mid-Atlantic litigation. And not a whisper from the chief judge about the chances of promoting Stapleton from his Antitrust Division job. Finally, however, Harvey Grand calls with good news. “They’ve gone. No trace of them for two days.”

  “But you’ll stay on it,” Alec says.

  “Of course.”

  “And—”

  “I know, Alec, I know. I’ll call you the second they come back.”

  “Because they will.”

  “I know that too,” Harvey says.

  That night, arriving home even later than usual, Alec finds Jesse reading in bed—their bed—and Sarah still out. “Where is she?” Alec asks.

  “At Tino’s,” she says, putting her book down. “My guess is his mom’s out, and they have that apartment to themselves.”

  “You think they’re sleeping together?”

  “They’re having sex, Alec. I assume they’re doing it in bed, the conventional way.”

  “Hmm,” he says, sitting close to her on the edge of their bed.

  “Does this news disturb you?” Jesse says. “You think she’s too young?”

  “I think she’s sensible. And I think he’s okay.”

  “So it doesn’t disturb you.”

  “Of course it disturbs me,” Alec says. “On some primal level, it disturbs the hell out of me.”

  “Does it surprise you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you happy for her?”

  “Mixed feelings, like I said. Very mixed.”

  “But you’ll do nothing about this,” Jesse says. “Including not insulting her intelligence by telling her to be careful.”

  “Right,” he says with an evident lack of enthusiasm.

  “Good man,” she says, reopening her book.

  “One more thing.” He relates Harvey’s news.

  “So it’s what you expected. They caught you watching them, and they’ve gone off for a while.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” she says. “An interregnum. Now go wash up so we can have sex.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Marius Shilling invites Alec to lunch.

  Lunch with Shilling means 12:30 at the Downtown Association. Neither place nor time need be mentioned; both are assumed. The routine was established in the days leading up to Alec’s first major trial—litigation involving a giant fraud financed by mob boss Phil Anwar, Sarah’s natural father, and ending with a victory for Alec that brought him into partnership in his firm. Shilling had also been retained by Alec’s client, not for the trial but to settle its debts to the banks on a related matter. Alec tried the case because Frank Macalister, who, before getting dry in AA, drove his car into a tree in the driveway of his country club. And Alec was assigned the job of getting along with Marius Shilling because Mac, the sort of character often played by John Wayne, and Shilling, one best depicted by Erich von Stroheim, were born to be at each other’s throats.

  Arriving at the Downtown Association is like entering another world, one taking place circa 1880. Alec thinks of it as shabby genteel, although the gentility is richly displayed in red plush fabrics, worn thin in very few places, red leather chairs, slightly cracked in one or two seats, starched white tablecloths having only an occasional tear, and glinting silver. Porters and waiters are, of course, formally dressed. Members speak only in murmurs.

  Shilling is waiting at his usual table and gives his customary half-rise acknowledgement of Alec’s arrival. After greeting each other, reminiscing briefly, and ordering their meal—done in a place like this with the member, Shilling, writing it out and handing it to a geriatric waiter—they get to the business at hand.

  Shilling says, “You do realize, my dear boy, that our standstill agreement is nearing its termination date?”

  “Well aware, yes.”

  “We’ll have to extend that, for a while at least.”

  “ ‘A while’?”

  “The statute of limitations has already run out—or rather would have had it not been extended by the tolling agreement. So if the agreement terminates, the limitations period snaps shut retroactively to wipe out any claim. If you’re not ready to extend the standstill, my clients will have to sue right now.”

  “That’s not what I was asking,” Alec says. “We’re perfectly willing to extend. But your people had always made clear you would actually stand still so long as Mid-Atlantic was still prosecuting the claim. And that will go on for more than ‘a while.’ ”

  “Well, that’s the problem—or, at least, part of it.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s not moving very fast, Alec. And now, with the government affirming the validity of the claim….”

  “Come on, Marius. You know better. The filing of the government complaint was inter-department politics. And ending that case on the day it was filed, with a consent decree that’s essentially meaningless—you think those were the acts of a confident prosecutor? If the government thought they had a winner, they’d have gone for a win, which would have collaterally estopped us from defending ourselves against your clients on the liability issue. They would have handed you a free ticket to damages.”

  “You should talk to Harold Kohn, Philadelphia Electric’s outside counsel.”

  “Why? Is he going to take over your job?”

  “If Philadelphia Electric sues,” Shilling says, “he’ll probably represent all the utilities.”

  “Not Freddy Musselman?”

  “I’m told he’ll give way to Kohn.”

  “And Kohn wants to sue?” Alec asks.

  “Harold always wants to sue.”

  “So what are you telling me, Marius? What’s this about?”

  “I think we should talk settlement now,” the older lawyer pronounces.

  “Of 125 claims that may never get filed?” Alec says.

  “It’s the best time. Before anyone’s spent money on such cases. Before Harold Kohn steps in—because he won’t settle. He likes blood. Before you lose to the coal companies and have no money left. And before you lose to Mid-Atlantic, and have no defenses left. When, obviously, the price of settlements will be a great deal higher.”

  “And before we beat Mid-Atlantic, when the price will be zero, because the other utilities will walk away.”

  “You’ve very little chance of that, Alec.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “So that’s a no?” Shilling says. “You’re unwilling to talk?”

  “On the contrary. Anything you like. Standstill extension—just change the dates on the old agreement, we’ll be happy to sign. Settlement? Make an offer. Make 125 offers—happy to pass them on.”

  “With your appro
val?”

  “Of course not. We’re going to win our case against Mid-Atlantic, your clients will go away, and that will be the end of it.”

  “My dear friend, I don’t believe you.”

  “Then test it. Make your offers and watch them be turned down. Wait out the case and watch us win it.”

  “You will destroy your client, Alec!”

  “Funny,” he says. “I think right now staying the course might be the only thing keeping them alive.”

  From the backseat of Harvey’s Cadillac, Sarah complains. “This is ridiculous, Harvey. You’re not a driver. If I needed someone to drive me, I’d call Schlomo.”

  “Not in these circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?” she says. “They’ve gone away. You said so.”

  “And I’ve told you—”

  “Right. They’re coming back. So when they do, you can drive me.”

  The light changes and Harvey heads up Madison Avenue. “Where we going, Sarah? You haven’t said.”

  “Tino’s.”

  “Is he there? Waiting?”

  “Maybe. If not, he’ll be there soon.”

  “You have a key?” Harvey asks.

  “Yes,” Sarah says. “I have a key.”

  “But until Tino arrives, you’ll be there alone?”

  “I told you,” she says with asperity. “He’ll be there soon. Can we return to the subject, please?”

  “The subject is your safety. When the threat is removed, you can have Schlomo.”

  “You think he can’t deal with a threat? If it comes, he’ll drive away from it. Would you do anything different? And with Schlomo, I get to sit in the front seat.”

  “Which is part of the problem.”

  “Huh?”

  “If they come shooting,” Harvey says, “they won’t be aiming at the backseat. And as for the threat, Sarah, who do you think has a better chance of seeing it coming?”

  That stifles her for a block.

  “You know my… uncle?” she says.

  “I know who he is.”

  “And Phil?” she says. “Did you know him?”

  “We never actually met.”

  “But you were there? That night?”

  “You don’t remember?”