Grant McCrea - Dead Money

I’d like to come back and talk to you some more, I said. After I’ve got a little more information. I want to dig around a bit.

Sure, he said, the toothy smile growing larger. Anything for a lowlife.

I returned the smile.

There was another long pause.

You look a bit like Harrison Ford, he said.

Ah, I said. Thank you.

I wasn’t sure it had been intended as a compliment, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. All I could think about was how to get the hell out of there. Before things got even weirder.

It’s been a pleasure, I said, and got up to leave.

But it wasn’t going to be that easy.

Redman, he said as I reached the door.

I turned around.

I assume you’ve got some good Trusts and Estates people?

New business, I thought, switching to rainmaker mode. This could be going somewhere. Maybe Warwick had been right.

Sure, I said. We’re a full-service shop.

I’ve got a little something I’d like somebody to take a look at.

Just give me an idea what it’s about, I said, so I can set you up with the right people.

I was thinking of Dorita. T amp; E was her specialty.

Well, he said, it’s a little delicate. But I guess you’re my lawyer, right? Attorney-client privilege and all that?

Strictly speaking Jules is my client. Though of course you’re paying the bills.

Are you sure? he said, looking none too pleased.

There’s no reason you can’t be my client too, I said. So long as there’s no conflict.

Conflict? Why would there be a conflict?

I don’t know. It depends on what it is.

Let me tell you, he said, just between you and me.

I wasn’t sure that it could be just between him and me. For one thing, Mr. Hairdo was in the room. But I let him talk.

You know that Jules and I haven’t always got along.

Yes, I said. I think you mentioned that.

I took him out of my will.

So I understand.

You don’t judge me for that, do you?

It’s not my job to judge, I said, truthfully.

I have my reasons. If you knew them, you wouldn’t judge me.

I’m not judging you, I said, not entirely truthfully.

I was, in fact, judging him. But I promised myself not to bill him for the time.

The thing is, he said, he’s got some trusts. From his grandfather.

I had wondered how Jules could afford a loft in Manhattan. I’d put it down to rent control.

Your wife’s father? I asked.

He got that vacant look again. He looked at Mr. Hairdo. Mr. Hairdo looked back. If something was communicated between them, I sure didn’t know what it was.

FitzGibbon turned back to me.

Mine, he said. Dad felt guilty, at the end, I guess. He left us some money. Put some in trust for the future grandchildren.

Ah.

Very substantial trusts.

Ah.

The income isn’t much. But when Jules turns twenty-five, he gets the capital.

I see.

It bothers me.

It bothers you.

Yes. I’d like to talk to somebody about it.

I was starting to get the picture.

Well, I said, that would seem to present a pretty stark conflict.

How so? he asked obstinately.

Jules is my client, as I said, even if you’re paying. And what you’re talking about certainly doesn’t sound like it’s in my client’s interest.

His face darkened.

It’s for his own good. The kid’s never going to come to anything as long as he can suck off grandpa’s tit.

Ignoring the bizarre metaphor, I stuck to my guns.

That may well be true, I said. I don’t doubt you. But that’s not a judgment I can make. Like I said, I’m not in the business of judging.

You’re in the business of getting paid by me, goddamn it.

His neck bulged with purple veins. I saw my nice new business flying out the door. But there were lines that even I was not ready to cross.

Yes, I said, you are paying the bills. I agree. But frankly, if you insist on this as a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, I’ll have to say no.

He glared at me. His neck throbbed.

It was a stalemate. I’d played it right. He was a tough guy. Tough guys admire toughness.

Listen, I said, here’s what I can do. I have a buddy, a very smart guy. A pillar of the T amp; E bar. He’s got his own firm. I’ll refer you to him. He’ll do a good job for you.

FitzGibbon didn’t look entirely mollified, but he nodded his large red head.

All right, he said. Have him call me. I’ll have him checked out.

I went back to the office. The bomb scare, or whatever it was, was over.

I thought about FitzGibbon’s last remark. I wondered whether he’d had me checked out too. And if he had, what he’d found.

I called up John (Don’t-Call-Me-Jack) Kennedy. He and a buddy had spun off a small Trusts and Estates boutique. Wills. Old ladies. Trusts. Tax shelters. Helping the rich stay rich. John was very good at it. He had the perfect blend of perfectionism and schmooze. And a closet full of designer bow ties.

He was a touch over-sensitive about his name, however. I took a childish glee in exploiting it.

Hey, Jack, I said.

Don’t call me Jack, Dick.

You won’t be so rude to me once you hear what I’m calling about.

I’ll be the judge of that. Really, I mean it.

Okay, okay, shoot. You got some work for me. You’ll never let me forget it.

Right on both counts. But even better than you think. Listen up. We’ve got a big client. Big big. Eamon FitzGibbon. CEO of Consolidated Can. You know him?

I know of him.

Good. Big, fat, red-faced, Irish charm. But most important, rich as Croesus.

That I knew. Even us T amp; E guys read The Wall Street Journal.

Especially you T amp; E guys.

Especially us.

Right after you finish with the Times obits. I know. Anyway. He needs some help. Estate stuff. Maybe some tax stuff. Doesn’t sound like much. But as sure as A leads to P with an ampersand you can make something big out of this.

I don’t doubt it. Sounds good.

Don’t doubt me. I can’t give you any details. Privilege, you know. Do a conflict check. Actually, I can tell you this much: it’s more than privilege. Dark-glasses-and-trench-coat stuff. Keep it quiet, okay? We’ll get together. Compare notes. Later. Just make him happy. We’ll go places, Jack.

Don’t call me Jack.

That’s my boy. Keep him happy, okay?

You said that already. You can count on me.

I know that. That’s why I called you, and not one of my other asshole T amp; E buddies.

I’ll try to ignore the ambiguity in that last.

Excellent.

All right.

All right.

I couldn’t sleep. Again.

I went downstairs to the kitchen, avoiding the living room on the way. I warmed myself a glass of milk on the stove. I always warmed my milk on the stove. The microwave made it taste strange. Like someone had peeled an onion over it.

I would have added some Scotch, but we ran a dry house. Except for Melissa’s statutory AA bottle. The temptation talisman. They’re supposed to keep one in the house. To show that they can live without touching it.

No smoking in the house either. No substances, Dr. Steiglitz insisted. I had to sneak out back. Maybe I should quit, I often thought. It’s bad for you, I’d heard.

I took my warm glass to the bedroom. I lay down. I turned on the TV. CNN. The Albanians were protesting in Macedonia. Fascinating. I watched blankly. I drank the milk slowly.

The milk didn’t do it for me.

I gave in to it. I had no choice. I got up. I smoothed the creases from my suit. I sucked in my gut. I said, okay, that’s you, in the mirror there. That’s you. You’re good-looking, sort of. Accomplished. Compared to most. You have nothing to fear. Get back to the bar.