Grant McCrea - Dead Money

And so I went. I glanced into the living room. Melissa on the couch, reading. I went out the back door. Around the side of the house. Down the block. Back to the Wolf’s Lair.

I sauntered through the door. It felt like I had never left. I looked around, surveying my territory. I sniffed the air, to see if any strange dogs had left new spoor.

I didn’t see Jake.

I felt a vague and unexpected disappointment.

Thom behind the bar. His welcoming smile.

The usual?

Can’t say no.

Make it a double?

Thom knew my predilections.

Twist my arm, I said.

Thom poured my drink, wiped the counter clean. The Scotch was warm and comforting. I took a magazine from the rack. The Economist. What’s happening in Armenia. The Minister of Justice announces court reform. Good luck.

Two stools down, an older guy. I’d seen him there before. Long gray hair. Ponytail. Kodiaks. Pall Mall non-filter. Thick hands. Thin lips. A worldly air. A working man. A poet. I remembered his name. Hal.

Hey Thom? I asked.

Rick.

You know this Jake guy?

Sure, he said. Been around here quite a bit lately.

Says he’s a carpenter. So I hear.

You know anybody can tell me if his work’s any good?

Not really, Thom said. But I can ask around.

I’d appreciate it, I said.

Hal turned to me.

Hey, man.

Hey, Hal.

What’s up?

Nothing much.

What brings you here?

I don’t know. Conflict. Disaster. Depression.

More laughter. The dark warm mahogany of the bar. The cool brass rail.

Hey, you were talking about Jake? asked Hal.

Yeah.

Kind of weird, that guy.

Weird? How so?

I don’t know. Just something about him. Something in his eyes. The way he looks at you.

How’s that?

Like you’re not there. Like he’s thinking of something else.

I hadn’t noticed that.

Look for it, next time. You’ll see what I mean.

I made a mental note.

Hal went back to his beer, I to my double. The Scotch began to do its work. The warm seeped slow and dreamlike into my extremities. I drank the rest. I sat awhile. My brain slowed down. I smiled, paid Thom, ambled for the door.

Now, I thought, I can sleep.

Melissa was on the couch, legs curled beneath her, head askew. Sleeping. I stood, wondering. Daring to wonder. What would it be like to make love to her? I’d forgotten. And anyway, my recollection, if I had one, would have been misleading. She was a different person now.

If I disturbed her she’d be angry. Her sleep had not come easily, since her return from the hospital. What little rest she got was precious. To her, and to the rest of us. When she’d had some sleep she was less difficult.

I found a blanket, spread it over her. I leaned over. Braced myself on the sofa arm. Looked into her face. The face I loved. I took a chance. I kissed her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not wake.

A victory.

I turned away. I crossed the room. I went upstairs. The stairs were steep. My feet were heavy.

Exhaustion. The house was full of it.

I slept. I woke. It was black outside. I willed myself back to sleep. I woke again. The sun was up.

My feet were clammy. I could tell I smelled. I made myself take a shower. I avoided the mirror. Last time I’d looked, I’d seen small veins sprouting on my nose. I’d tried to console myself. Just the Second Law of Thermodynamics at work. Entropy. All things tend toward a state of maximum disorder. There was nothing I could do about it. It was a law. And I was a lawyer. I was bound to uphold the law.

I trudged to Kelly’s room.

Wake up, I said. It’s a beautiful day.

I know, she mumbled, turning over and putting a pillow over her head, I can’t wait til I’m awake.

Oh, all right, I said. I guess you’ve earned a late morning. I’m not sure how.

For being me, she mumbled.

That’ll do, I said.

At the office the air was heavy and gray. I answered some calls. I read some faxes and e-mails. I delegated some trivial tasks.

I had to get out of there.

I made an appointment to see the Assistant District Attorney in charge of Jules’s case. Some hotshot young guy, I’d been told. I knew I wasn’t going to get much out of him. But it was a good idea to feel him out. See which way the wind was blowing.

The ADA’s office was at the end of a long narrow corridor in an old gray building in lower Manhattan. The door was closed. The receptionist asked me to wait outside for a few minutes. While he finished a phone call.

There was nowhere to sit. I amused myself by examining the bulletin board. It was plastered with the usual bureaucratic detritus. Badly photocopied wanted posters. Employee of the month announcement, eight months out of date. Tattered menus from the many local take-out joints.

The office door opened. The ADA waved me in.

Hi, he said. Russell Graham.

He shook my hand with a firm grip. He had a strong chin and a Roman nose. A generic name. I could tell he was going places.

He shared a small room, replete with the usual government-issue squalor. Battered gray filing cabinets. Ancient oak swivel chairs. Ink stains. Piles of dusty files that looked as if they hadn’t been consulted since the Great Depression. And, speaking of depression, a rumpled colleague, asleep with his head on his desk, his nose dangerously close to an ashtray overflowing with chewed cigar butts.

Russell, I said loudly. Pleased to meet you. Rick Redman. I’m representing Jules FitzGibbon.

The rumpled fellow lifted his head. Rubbed his eyes. Looked around in confusion. Scuttled out the door.

Russell gave me a rueful smile. Made no comment.

Good to meet you, he said.

You might change your mind about that later, I said.

He laughed good-naturedly.

How can I help you? he asked.

Well, frankly, I said, I don’t know anything about this Larry Silver case. I’d be happy to hear whatever you’re willing to share with me.

There was a pause while he thought about that.

There’s not much to tell, he said. It seems to be pretty straightforward. At least six neighbors heard the fight. The kid is found dead in the alley an hour later. Blunt trauma. That’s about it.

So I gather Jules is a suspect?

I think you can assume that.

Stupid question, I guess, I said with a grin.

He didn’t return the smile.

Any other suspects? I asked.

I’m not sure that I’m at liberty to tell you that.

I understand.

At the appropriate time.

Yes.

What about physical evidence?

You know, I’d like to help you. Or at least, I’d like to help you within the constraints of my duty to the State. Now, it’s no secret to you, I’m sure, that Mr. FitzGibbon, the father, is rather well connected. In fact, he’s the chairman of and biggest single contributor to the mayor’s antidrug campaign.

So I understand.

Of course, that would never affect the way we prosecute the case. But, well, you understand.

I wasn’t sure I did. I tried to say so as diplomatically as I could. With a questioning look.

Let’s just say, said the ADA, that I’m likely to be weighing my words perhaps a bit more carefully than I would in other circumstances.

I understand, I said. Of course. But if there’s anything you can tell me. About any physical evidence. That you’re at liberty to reveal.

I’m sorry, said Russell Graham, ADA, with a sorrowful shake of the head that seemed almost genuine. But there’s not much to say. We’re doing the usual forensics. You’ll get them when you’re entitled to them.

If and when.

If and when, he smiled.

I was just wondering, I said. If Jules did it, why would he leave the body right there? In an alley? Right after a loud fight that everybody in his building must have heard? Doesn’t really make sense, does it?