Grant McCrea - Dead Money

Tomorrow, I repeated, with unusual resolve.

Okay, have it your way. So, what’s this FitzGibbon thing?

I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. FitzGibbon’s son, what’s-his-name. He’s in some kind of trouble. Not a speeding ticket. Something serious. I don’t know what.

Jules. His name is Jules.

Right. But the thing is, why me? It’s not like I’m a top-flight criminal lawyer. I’m a civil litigator, for Christ’s sake. I just do the stuff on the side. Do my bit for the social fabric, all that.

My poor little paranoid bunny. Warwick just wants to keep it in the house. You get the boy off, we get more business from Daddy.

Yeah, well. That might make sense. But I can’t help thinking Warwick’s setting me up to fail. Rehabilitation. Jesus.

Well, I can’t say that’s utterly beyond the realm of possibility. But what are you going to do about it?

Do my best, darling. Just like always. Sad but true. Can’t help myself.

That’s the ticket, Ricky. Anyway, you know the old man hates his guts.

Who?

Jules. FitzGibbon can’t stand him.

I’ll ignore the fact that the ‘old man’ is in my age bracket. And I know. Or at least, so I’ve been told. But blood runs thick, darling.

If blood it is, in that shit’s veins.

Well, yes. To tell you the truth, I don’t know the guy very well. Met him at a cocktail party or two. Big red Irishman as I recall. Full of noise and spit.

That’s the one. You’re not going to have an easy time with him.

Meaning?

Meaning he’s a major-league prick. He fired a guy for having a Snickers in the elevator.

Was he just holding it, or eating it?

What?

The guy with the Snickers. Was it unwrapped? Was he eating it in the elevator?

I don’t know. What kind of question is that?

Well, if he was eating it, I could understand.

Sure, and maybe he was wearing sneakers, too.

Snickers and sneakers? Jesus.

You’re right. I’d have fired him too.

Fitzgibbon’s office was on the thirty-third floor of the Consolidated Can building. It was vast and modern, paneled in the sort of expensive blond wood that gave me a headache. Furnished in black leather and chrome. A large twisted ropelike thing reposed on the coffee table. I took it to be a pricey piece of Modern Art.

A much-too-well-manicured young man was sitting stiffly in the left-hand visitor’s chair. His hair was expensively coiffed and lacquered. He looked like a salsa kind of guy.

FitzGibbon gave the kid a nod. The salsa guy moved to the less comfortable chair. On the way, he gave me a Look. I wasn’t sure what kind of Look it was. But it was definitely a Look.

Security, FitzGibbon said.

Ah, I said.

I wondered what it was about me that seemed dangerous.

FitzGibbon himself had a set of perfectly sculpted New Teeth. Caps, I surmised. They would not have been out of place in a glass display case. In his mouth, on the other hand, they were a bit too big. They gave him a perpetual too-large grin. Which actually wasn’t too bad an effect. Something about him, I’d heard, made young female subordinates’ heels turn suddenly round, as they used to say.

He also had the Irish flush – which at a distance or in good lighting could have been taken for a Perpetual Tan – together with an Insistent Nose.

In short, he was a prize.

First of all, he said, in a deep voice that betrayed the excessive cultivation of the formerly uncultivated, I’d like to thank you for taking this on. It means a lot to me.

Not a problem, I said. It’s my pleasure.

Not to mention that I hardly had a choice, I neglected to add.

Really, it does, he said, as though I might be doubting his sincerity.

I appreciate that, I reassured him.

I guess you know that Jules and I have had our problems, he said.

I’ve heard a few things.

Well, pay no attention. He’s my son. I’m not going to let him twist in the wind.

Of course not.

Wouldn’t look good.

He lifted up a large glass ashtray. Shifted it from hand to hand.

Bad for business, he elaborated.

I nodded. I struggled to keep my poker face.

FitzGibbon looked at the lacquered gent in the other chair.

The salsa guy was staring straight at me, scowling. Like I might spring up any second and spray the joint with slugs from a cleverly concealed Uzi.

I know, FitzGibbon said. You think I’m just another arrogant rich guy.

He paused. I did my best to maintain my neutral, expectant air.

Eight kids, he continued. My father left when I was five. Never gave us a dime til he died. Westchester to Hell’s Kitchen. Mom died when I was sixteen. I was the oldest. I took care of the rest. Worked my ass off.

I nodded sympathetically.

It wasn’t easy.

I can imagine, I said, sincerely. But didn’t your father have to pay child support?

Those were different days, he said.

I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

I started my own business, he said. I’m not saying I was a genius. I’m no genius. But I built it up from scratch. Machine tools. Built it up. Branched out. Trucking. Taxi fleets. Whatever came along.

I nodded admiringly.

Didn’t let anything get in my way, he said, giving me a new kind of Look.

It was the kind of Look that told me it wouldn’t be wise to get in his way.

He let the Look linger for a while. I shifted in my chair. The room was uncomfortably warm. My hands felt sticky. I wiped them on my trousers, as discreetly as I could.

And I don’t keep it all to myself, he said.

I see, I replied.

Sure. I’m active in the community. The mayor’s antidrug task force. I’m the chairman. I fund the whole damn thing.

That’s very admirable, I said.

I wondered why he seemed so anxious to impress me.

And then I got lucky, he said. I raised my eyebrows.

I met Veronica. Beautiful woman. Fell in love with her.

He fixed me with a challenging stare.

I did, he said, with a touch of aggression. Whatever you’ve heard, we married for love.

The fact was, I’d heard nothing. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

So if I’ve still got a few rough edges…

His face went blank. He stared into space.

I took the unfinished sentence as my cue to make a contribution.

Well, I said, I can relate to that.

Really? he said, turning back to me.

Sure. I flunked out of high school myself, originally. Had to go back later, to get into college.

Jesus H. Christ, that a fact? You hear that? he asked, turning to Mr. Hairdo.

Mr. Hairdo didn’t take his eyes off me.

It is, I said. Charles probably didn’t tell you about that.

No, he didn’t. Probably thought I’d be put off.

FitzGibbon pondered for a moment.

Warwick’s a pompous ass, he said.

I smiled, involuntarily. Maybe this guy wasn’t so bad after all.

My wife’s the only reason he gets my business, he continued.

I see, I said.

She and Joan are close.

Joan Warwick?

They were on some conceptual art committee or something together. At the Modern.

Hence the ropy thing on the coffee table, I surmised.

His eyes wandered to the window. I could have sworn they misted up a bit.

I was beginning to wonder when FitzGibbon was planning to get around to talking about his son’s little problem. I was also getting a little concerned about the drift of the conversation. I didn’t trust myself not to blurt out some random comment about Joan Warwick’s taste in men. For all I knew we were being recorded, for Warwick’s later entertainment.

I decided to get to the point.

What do you know about Jules’s situation? I asked.