Grant McCrea - Dead Money

I didn’t ask you when, said Steiglitz. I asked you how long.

He was slowly raising his voice. Playing the prosecutor. Melissa was so shrunken, so beaten down. I felt protective. I wanted to say something. But Steiglitz gave me a Look.

The Look said: Don’t do it.

How long did you quit for? he repeated.

Three weeks, she said, barely audible.

Three weeks, he nodded. When did you stop?

Christmas Eve. I stopped on Christmas Eve. I wanted to be there for Kelly.

We could barely hear her. Kelly looked at her feet. Melissa hadn’t been there Christmas Eve. She’d been asleep in Kelly’s room. We’d eaten without her.

And when did you start again?

Kelly’s birthday, she mumbled.

When is Kelly’s birthday?

The fifth.

January fifth?

Yes.

I looked at Steiglitz, a question in my eyes. What did all this mean?

He ignored me.

How many days in three weeks? he asked.

He was boring in.

Twenty-one, she mumbled.

How many days between December twenty-fourth and January fifth?

She was silent.

How many, Melissa?

Thirteen, she whispered.

Twelve, Melissa. Twelve days.

Twelve.

Not three weeks.

No.

Not even two.

No.

She looked up at Steiglitz for the first time. She seemed strangely pleased. As though she had enjoyed his performance. Or perhaps it was relief. That somebody at last was confronting the Monster.

He looked at me.

So, he said.

Silence.

Rock bottom, he said.

What does that mean? Kelly asked, with a flash of impatience. What’s rock bottom?

The street, he said.

The street?

She has to know that if she takes another drink, another pill, she’s on the street. That’s it. She’s gone. You’re going to disown her.

You’re telling me to throw my wife out on the street? I asked.

Only if she has another drink. Or takes another pill.

He looked at me placidly. It occurred to me that he had had this conversation many times before. An infinite array of naive and loving husbands, fathers, sons. Anguished. Confused. Protesting.

I thought of all the homeless people on the streets I walked. They’d hit bottom, to all appearances. They didn’t look too cured to me.

I suddenly felt very tired. I just wanted to go home.

He’s right, you know, said Kelly.

She never failed to surprise me.

Melissa looked resigned. Steiglitz looked smug.

It seemed that everyone understood but me.

Steiglitz prescribed three Valium a day, for five more days. To ward off the DTs. Then nothing. Antabuse. AA. And patience. One day at a time. Not just for her. For us.

When we got up to leave, Steiglitz came around his desk. He shook my hand, and Kelly’s. He turned and put his arms around Melissa, hugged her.

He was so tall, so manicured.

She was so small, so disheveled.

Jules lived in a converted factory on the lower East Side. More factory than converted.

I rang the bell.

I rang it again.

I rang it a third time.

A sleepy voice finally responded.

Yeah? it said.

Jules?

Yo.

Jules, I said, I’m a lawyer. Your father sent me.

Hmph, he responded.

Jules, I said again, a bit louder.

Silence.

Do you think you might let me in?

Silence.

I was girding for more repartee when the door finally buzzed. I pulled it open just in time.

I took an ancient elevator to the third floor. Found Jules’s place. The door was ajar. I invited myself in.

The loft was huge, asymmetrical. A balcony ran across one end. Bedroom up there, I surmised. The lower space was entirely open. The ceiling must have been at least twenty feet high. Exposed metal girders, painted primary colors. Blue, yellow, red. The effect was startling, but pleasant. The space was big enough to take the color. At the far end, tall arched windows, a spectacular view of the tenements across the street. A kitchen counter against the left-hand wall, underneath the balcony, piled with pizza boxes, takeout cartons, beer bottles.

A body was lying on a large tattered couch. My client’s, I presumed. It had its back to me.

Sit up, I said to the back of its head. I need to talk to you.

It rolled over and opened its eyes. They were gray and out of focus.

Who are you? he asked.

A reasonable question, I assured him. I’m Rick Redman. Your father sent me.

He considered that information. He eyed me intently. His eyes were focused now.

Fuck him, he said at last.

I’d be glad to do that, if I get the chance, I said, attempting to curry favor. But right now he’s paying me to represent you. And if I were you I’d take advantage of it.

He thought some more.

Fuck him, he repeated.

Okay, I said. Fuck him. Now let’s get down to business. You’re in some shit here. I don’t actually know what kind of shit yet, but you can help me with that. I think it’s safe to say it’s going to take some work to get you out of it.

He sat up. He looked at me with curiosity. His eyes stayed gray. He looked down at his shoes. Standard-issue paint-splattered high-tops. Faux-camouflage overalls. Metallica T-shirt. Nose ring. Hair dyed an unnatural henna red. In short, the downtown works.

He’s paying you? he asked.

Yep.

Why?

I looked for tracks on his arms. Didn’t see any.

I don’t know. Maybe because he’s your dad?

That wouldn’t explain it.

Well, it’s all the explanation I’ve got today. Anyway, I’m not here to be a marriage counselor. I’m here to get you out of whatever shit you’re in.

He considered that.

In that case, he said at last, I guess you’re hired.

Good, I said, taking a seat.

Fuck him, he said again. This time the emphasis was on the first word: Fuck’m.

Okay, I said. Fuck’m. Right now, I need you to tell me what happened. Beginning at the beginning. Continuing to the end, which is right here right now. Then we figure out what to do about it. First thing, you didn’t do it, right?

I didn’t do shit.

Good. That’s the right answer. Now, tell me all about what you didn’t do. In other words, what happened?

Shit happened.

Yeah, I know. Shit happens.

He snorted.

So, what exactly kind of shit happened?

There was a fight.

A fight?

Yeah. A fight.

What kind of a fight?

A fight, man. A fight. What kind of a fight do you think?

I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking the questions. Listen, Jules, this is going to take a very long time if it keeps going like this. I’m not the cops. I’m your lawyer. I can’t help you if you don’t help me.

Meaning?

Meaning, can you just answer the damn questions?

He considered this for a while.

Okay, he said. You got a smoke?

As a matter of fact I do, I said, but I doubt they’re your style.

I fished out my pack of ultra-light menthols.

Shit, he said. My brand.

For the first time, he’d surprised me.

I thought you’d be a Marlboro-type guy, I said.

Yeah, me too, he replied. But I like these. Maybe I’m half black or something. Or half a fag.

Right, I said, lighting his and mine, I guess I am too. So, let’s get back to the story.

The fight story?

Yeah. The fight story. Who was fighting?

Me and this guy.

What guy?

A buddy of mine. Larry.

Larry who?

Larry Silver.

What were you fighting about?

Money.

What money?

Money he said I owed him.

How much?

Two grand.

Two grand? That’s a lot of money.

That’s a lot of money.

And you don’t agree that you owe him the money?

Owed him. No. I didn’t.

Why ‘owed’?