Grant McCrea - Dead Money

He stared at me. He looked confused.

Jules? I repeated. Anything you can tell me about his situation?

Jules? he bellowed. Not a damn thing. I got a call from some public defender guy. Seems Jules didn’t have the balls to call home himself.

Well, I said, I suspect he wasn’t thinking too clearly.

It was FitzGibbon’s turn to give me the raised eyebrow. Thinking I was making some reference to drugs, I surmised.

Stress, you know, I clarified. It’s not every day you get arrested. I assume he’s never been arrested before?

Not that I know of. But that isn’t saying much.

His voice trailed off. He picked up the ashtray again. Gazed at it intently. As though it had some secret to reveal.

I kept my counsel.

He looked up at last.

All right, he barked. Head over there. Find out what’s going on. Warwick says you’re a top-notch guy. I’ll have to take his word for it.

I was flattered. Sort of.

Apparently the audience was over.

I got the particulars from FitzGibbon’s secretary. Jules had called from a lockup downtown. She gave me the address.

Mr. Security followed me out. Sat on the edge of her desk. Gave her a smile. Gave me a Look.

I felt like I was interrupting something. Something I probably didn’t want to know about.

I grabbed a cab. The plastic pine tree air freshener hanging from the mirror did little to disguise the smell of sausage and green peppers.

The jail was bleak. Outside, a prisoner in white coveralls was tending a tiny wilting garden. He gave me an obsequious smile.

Inside, I was ignored. I asked around til someone directed me to a large square woman. She ruled behind an elevated counter fronted by bulletproof glass. One look and she knew my type. The big-shot lawyer hired by someone’s daddy. I asked to see Jules FitzGibbon.

Jules FitzGibbon? Harry, you got a Jules FitzGibbon back there? she shouted over her shoulder in a heavy New Jersey accent. It came out ‘beck they-ah.’

I heard an indeterminate growl from the back.

Miss New Jersey turned back to me.

Nah, she said. They let him go.

Ah, I said. Well. I understand he was questioned here earlier. Is there someone I can talk to?

She gave me a withering look. Didn’t answer.

I had an idea.

Hey, I said, is Butch Hardiman on duty?

Butch? she said. Maybe.

I took that for a yes.

Would you do me a favor and call him? Tell him Rick Redman’s here?

She added a layer of skepticism to her cynicism. Picked up the intercom. Paged Butch.

When he came out, Butch had his big smile on for me. Butch was an old buddy. We’d been on opposite sides of a case or two. We understood each other. I asked him if he knew what was up with this Jules FitzGibbon. Told him I was the kid’s lawyer.

Don’t know much, he said. They brought him in on something. Not enough to hold him on it. Sent him home.

What’s the ‘something’?

Don’t know, he said. Wasn’t here when they brought him in.

You got an address for him?

I can get it for you. Ask around a bit.

Hey, I said. Appreciate it. We’ll catch up next time.

Sure thing, buddy, he said.

Butch always made me feel good.

It was almost impossible to get a cab downtown in the afternoon. After ten minutes of futility a beat-up gypsy car rolled by. The driver gave me the ‘you need a cab?’ look. I leaned in the window to negotiate.

The guy smelled of anchovies.

I got in anyway.

The traffic was hell. Why should today be different from any other day? Hey. Not so bad. Gave me time to think.

I leaned back.

I thought about my life.

It wasn’t entertaining stuff.

I thought about Melissa.

Some months before, we’d taken her to the Emergency. She’d fallen down, hit the bathtub with her head. Kelly had found her, lying on the tiles in a pool of blood as big as Lake Wobegon. Melissa had opened her eyes.

How was school? she’d said to Kelly.

She was that far gone.

Kelly had called me at the office. I’d interrupted my nap. Rushed home. We’d tried to get her into the car, but she wouldn’t go.

There’s nothing wrong with me, you prick, she’d yelled, blood spraying from her mouth.

So we’d had to call the cops. She’d liked that even less. They’d strapped her down. Loaded her into the ambulance.

She’d let loose with a few nouns and adjectives I didn’t know she knew, before the EMTs shot something into her, and she got quiet. Kelly and I sat with her in the back, on flimsy fold-out seats. I felt too big, like an adult in kindergarten. Kelly’s eyes were red from crying. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

They kept her for five days. She’d lost a lot of blood. Had a minor stroke along the way. No permanent damage, they said. I wondered. I still wonder.

Kelly and I went to the hospital to pick her up. A nurse brought her to us in a wheelchair. She seemed small. Humbled. It was strange to see her that way. Disconcerting.

I’d never thought of her as small.

We were taken to see Steiglitz.

There was something too slick about Steiglitz. He had that George Hamilton thing. Bronze tan, set off beautifully against his pristine white lab coat. Sparkling, manicured teeth. Six foot five if he was an inch. Smooth baritone. Vaguely European accent.

Come to think of it, there was a whole lot too slick about him.

But he was good at what he did. The best, I’d been told.

He made us wait. Kelly sat on the green couch. I sat in the armchair. Behind the desk, a large picture window gave on to the East River, dark and languid in the rain. Brooklyn on the other side. A large windowless building dominated the view.

We all stared out the window.

We didn’t talk.

There was nothing to say.

Steiglitz entered, filling the room with color and charisma. As if from another world. Large. Larger than life.

We were diminished.

He strode to the desk. Sat down. Looked us each in the eye, ending with Melissa.

Hello, Melissa, he said.

Hello, Dr. Steiglitz, she replied.

You’ve got a problem.

I know, she whispered.

He turned to me.

It’s very simple, he said. When it gets to this point, there’s nothing we can do.

He paused to let that one sink in.

As professionals, I mean. The best we can do is show you the way. Give you some tools.

Okay, I said.

She’s not going to change.

Though he looked straight at her as he said this, he spoke in the third person.

Unless, he continued.

Unless?

Unless she hits rock bottom.

If this wasn’t rock bottom, I asked myself, what was?

And even then, he said. Even then. There’s no guarantee. This has gone very far. But I can tell you, with complete assurance, that if she doesn’t hit rock bottom, nothing will change. Or at least, if she doesn’t really, truly believe that next time, she’s going to hit rock bottom.

He paused, but clearly wasn’t finished.

We waited.

He looked straight at Melissa.

She’ll be dead within a year, he said. Maybe two.

No emotion showed on his face. He was simply stating a fact. His voice was still the silky baritone of the late-night radio announcer.

Melissa looked at the floor.

I’m trying, she mumbled.

You’re trying, he said, a note of sarcasm creeping in. All right. Let’s examine that. What is the longest period of time you’ve gone without a drink? In the last year.

There was a long pause while she thought about that.

I quit at Christmas, she said at last.

Kelly looked up at me, brows knitted. If she had quit at Christmas, it was news to us. She’d been, if anything, more absent then than ever.